The Problem With Being Perfect

Don't let this post title fool you. I don't think I'm perfect. Close, but maybe not totally.

I'm an annoying optimist and perpetual perfectionist. I like things how I like them, and that's just how it goes. I dislike disarray, disorganization, dysfunction, deliberate procrastination and disorder.

I've become worse with this as I've gotten older. In my teens and early 20's, I could leave the house without making my bed. Now I will not leave the house unless my bed is made.

You can thank my husband for this post. He's the reason I'm blogging today. Disorder is normal to him. Putting things off comes naturally. It's okay with him if there is a fork where the spoons go in the silverware drawer.

Let's just say lately I've been extremely busy. Between my job, my sons sports, cub scouts, the everyday household chores, church activities, family outings, and on and on and on... my personal time is limited to about 15 minutes late at night where I try to sit and read before eventually falling comatose in bed.

My husband works hard. He's up and out the door at dawn and rarely home before 5:00 pm. Five, sometimes six days a week. And he's still attending school, which eats up some of his free time. But yet- he never misses a football game on TV. He never misses Monday night football. He even manages to squeeze in a Penguins game at least once a week. And now, God Bless him, he's hooked on Alabama college football (thank you, Pat Taylor). And let us not forget that NASCAR and Drag races and Supercross are still on Sundays! Oh, TiVO- THANK YOU! He can watch six hours of football and then another three to four hours of auto racing later on in the evening, because thanks to YOU, TiVO- he can record stuff to watch later!

How does he manage to work a 50 hour work week, focus on school and homework for about 4 to 5 hours a week and still have time for all that leisure?

Oh, that's right- because while he's motionless on the couch, I'm fixing dinner. Doing dishes. Doing laundry. Checking homework. Organizing scout meetings. Scrubbing the toilet. Cleaning candle wax out of the carpet.

If I didn't have such a severe case of OCD, I would go on strike. But that would mean I'd have to let the housework go. Can't... do.... it.... I can't sleep if I know there are dishes to do or clothes that need put away.

So being one to expect a certain level of organization and structure, having to live with someone who doesn't seem to mind not doing so can be a challenge.

I'll give you an example. I had a busy evening last night. We got home late Sunday evening from our weekend trip, and there was laundry to do. Things to put away. Mail to check. Plus books to read for school. TJ had Cub Scouts. I'm the Den Leader, I had projects to prepare and other things to do for the meeting. So, I'm throwing together a 25 minute meal, then forcing TJ to eat his green beans so he can change into his uniform for scouts so we could go.

I ask my darling husband if he could wash the dishes while we were out. (Honestly, I thought about using paper plates for dinner, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.) "I'll get it later", was the response. Meaning, "when you get home from TJ's scout meeting, they'll still be in the sink."

So, after scouts, where were the dishes? In the sink! Dirty plates still on the dining room table! Where was my husband? On the couch, of course! After all, it was Monday night football! Oh how I fumed. If he was working on homework or paperwork for his job, I would have totally been okay. But no. And as I started to wash those dishes, he had the nerve to snore because he fell asleep. I wanted to shove one of his own dirty socks down his throat, but I refrained.

Then it was time to get TJ ready for bed. After reading his books and talking for at least twenty minutes about why birds fly south, I had phone calls to return and another load of laundry to put away.

When the love of my life was jolted out of his slumber because of my unusually heavy footsteps, he mumbled something about doing the dishes. To avoid loosing it I ignored him, made snide comments to myself and at long last fell into bed with my tea at my side, Midnight In the Garden of Good and Evil in hand. Who needs to cuddle with a lump that snores anyway? Besides, he can't entertain me with stories of murder and misfortune in Savannah like John Berendt can.

I made it to page 23.

And before I know it, my alarm is screaming at me and it's 5:30 already. Another day, the same routine. He's still on the couch, where I felt he deserved to be on this particular evening.

Does this mean next time the dishes will get washed when I ask? Does this mean he'll take a turn tucking in TJ and reading his books? Probably not. I hope he likes that couch, because if I don't start to get a little more help with the little things, it's where he's going to end up a lot more often.

So what's the problem with being perfect? Unfortunately I'm married to someone who is not.