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chaletianSomething interesting happened today. Well, interesting is probably stretching it a little.
Yesterday, I made about a million hip cards for patients. This involves cutting things up, sellotaping them, laminating them, and cutting around the finished product. My Blue Peter instincts were out in full force. So, I made these cards. And they turned out more or less OK. And I showed them to Claudia and Priscilla. And they both waxed lyrical about how well I’d done them. They got quite enthused about it.
Thing is, I didn’t think they were *that* good. I look at them, and all I can see is the slightly wonky lines that *should* be straight, and inconsistencies in the depth of the borders, and where I went round the corner in a way that isn’t a perfect quarter-circle.
I don’t think I’m a perfectionist, particularly. Cuz, you know, lazy and quite crap. This is, sadly, no secret. But it makes me think of my fundamental problem with life. Which is this:
I’m good at most things; good enough to know that I’m not good enough at any of them.
And OK, that’s not exactly the worst problem to have in the world. But it’s a bit crap, nonetheless, because I know that nothing I do is as good as lots of people could do. (And yes, my grammar is talking a bit of a swan dive here.) I’m gifted academically, but not particularly brilliant at any given subject. I play the flute reasonably well, but on an objective scale I’m rubbish; I can cook and bake well but not *really* well… there’s just a constant list of things that I’m not *really* good at. And it sounds *so* much like I love myself if I talk about it, because yes, I can do lots of things better than lots of people, but I don’t really care, because I know that I’m never going to be the best at anything. Is this making *any* sense at all? Probably not. I probably sound like a complete tit. As per. Oh, arse.
(NB – Have tagged this as slight mental instability just because it fits best there, not because I’m *overly* woeful about this – it is, after all, nothing new.)
Yesterday, I made about a million hip cards for patients. This involves cutting things up, sellotaping them, laminating them, and cutting around the finished product. My Blue Peter instincts were out in full force. So, I made these cards. And they turned out more or less OK. And I showed them to Claudia and Priscilla. And they both waxed lyrical about how well I’d done them. They got quite enthused about it.
Thing is, I didn’t think they were *that* good. I look at them, and all I can see is the slightly wonky lines that *should* be straight, and inconsistencies in the depth of the borders, and where I went round the corner in a way that isn’t a perfect quarter-circle.
I don’t think I’m a perfectionist, particularly. Cuz, you know, lazy and quite crap. This is, sadly, no secret. But it makes me think of my fundamental problem with life. Which is this:
I’m good at most things; good enough to know that I’m not good enough at any of them.
And OK, that’s not exactly the worst problem to have in the world. But it’s a bit crap, nonetheless, because I know that nothing I do is as good as lots of people could do. (And yes, my grammar is talking a bit of a swan dive here.) I’m gifted academically, but not particularly brilliant at any given subject. I play the flute reasonably well, but on an objective scale I’m rubbish; I can cook and bake well but not *really* well… there’s just a constant list of things that I’m not *really* good at. And it sounds *so* much like I love myself if I talk about it, because yes, I can do lots of things better than lots of people, but I don’t really care, because I know that I’m never going to be the best at anything. Is this making *any* sense at all? Probably not. I probably sound like a complete tit. As per. Oh, arse.
(NB – Have tagged this as slight mental instability just because it fits best there, not because I’m *overly* woeful about this – it is, after all, nothing new.)
