On Perfection

I'm thinking of buying a house. I've never owned a home before; my most permanent belongings are a car and some rare records. Since I moved out of my parents' house when I went to college, I've been fine with apartment living. My twenties and much of my thirties included several moves, and a stretch of time from roughly 2002-2012 when I traveled frequently (2 weeks per month) for work. An apartment made sense. It was permanent enough, but gave me the flexibility to say, move to California for two years without worrying about having to sell or rent property. I guess it also helps that I'm your resident single friend, so I don't have to worry about a spouse or kids and schools. It's just me and my cat son, and he doesn't care as long as he has a window, his bed, and food.

Now when I say house, I probably mean condo given where I live and the way real estate prices work around the DMV. If I wanted an actual house, I'd probably have to live in the middle of nowhere and drive four hours to work because NOVA has become the most expensive place in the world (I'm exaggerating slightly). Amazon is coming, and I assume that part of Jeff Bezos's plan to become a Bond villain is to drive up the cost of living so high in the area where I live that it will be deserted and he'll basically exist on a land island. Rent is worse, so really the smart thing to do is buy a house/condo. It's less expensive in the big picture, and would give me the one thing I really want: space.

I have hobbies. All of my hobbies include lots of stuff. As I write this, I'm sitting at my kitchen table (also my desk when I work from home), which is currently housing a button maker, stencils, an entire collection of pens, this laptop, two notebooks, my sewing machine (sitting on a chair), and tour notes for the museum. Under the table, are nine plastic bins that contain all of my glitter purse making supplies for Nyx 2020. If you go into the closet in my bedroom, you'll find all of the embroidery and other craft supplies I own and my larger sewing kit. I only bring those things out when I'm working on a project. My kitchen table would really like to be just a kitchen table.

Real estate is overwhelming, whether we're talking about renting or buying something. Yes, my parents and many of my friends are homeowners. I know at least seven realtors, none of whom live in my state, but I know them. That means nothing. It's still overwhelming and stressful. My shoulders are killing me just thinking about it. I'm uncomfortable with this process because I know very little about how it all works. Yes, I am researching and doing my part to understand, but it's still overwhelming. And a big part of why it is overwhelming is because it's risky and there are lots of unknowns within the process.

And that is the real problem. It's not the responsibility of home ownership so much as the fact that I don't know anything about what I'm about this journey that I'm about to embark on, and that is terrifying. I was listening to a podcast from Harvard Business Review this week called "Perfect is the Enemy," and it hit me hard. The podcast could have been about me. I'm a perfectionist and as such, it's hard to do things when I'm not 100% sure I can deliver or do something completely (halfway is not good enough for me). It's not in my nature. When I think about buying a house, I immediately go to the hundreds of things that could go wrong with doing so, rather than the positives I know exist. There are things I won't control in the process, and that makes me uncomfortable. I can't color code my way through this experience (maybe I can a little).

There were a few things in the podcast that made me say "that's me" (but not necessarily in a good way). My organizational skills tend to be very rigid, especially if I'm managing a project. While I'm fine with being flexible because the project scope or needs change, I still want to do things my way because I know my way is the best way (it's not always). I take failure very personally and even minor mistakes make me feel terrible. I don't often ask for help. I've been more aware of all of these things since starting my job two years ago, and have been trying to figure out a way how to balance it all and not drive myself or my colleagues crazy. There was a section on taking compliments that resonated too. I'm getting better on that front every day.

One of the podcast hosts said something a little later in the episode that definitely made me pause:

"There was a time, when I was younger, where especially being a perfectionist was kind of like a humble brag, like, I’m such a perfectionist. You know, you’re almost sort of proud of it....But then, over time, I started to realize, really for me, it was about internalizing other people’s expectations, and even sometimes just their imagined expectations."

This is exactly how I feel, and probably the way lots of women feel. We internalize so much of what we know or perceive others feel and it's exhausting. While I know that's now why I'm a perfectionist, I know my reaction to things when they don't go well is tied directly to this feeling. The hosts went on to discuss how as they go older, they stopped caring so much about those things they felt had to be perfect. They were more comfortable with who they are, their beliefs, and what they needed to be successful. It's not about not taking feedback, but using it in a way that will make you better and deciding what that actually means.

I think that's what people mean when they tell me how much I'm going to love being in my forties. It's like there's a magical line I've crossed that enables me to say, "Yes, I'm a perfectionist. I know this isn't always a positive thing, and I'm working on that. I also know that I don't care if you don't like the fact that I don't wear makeup all that often, have strong opinions about lots of things, like order and process, but still appreciate creativity and whimsy. I live my life for me, not you."

I don't have to be perfect. None of us have to be perfect. I can still love order and lists and my way of doing things, and not be perfect. I can step into the overwhelming, but ultimately (I hope) satisfying world of home ownership and be okay with the fact that it's overwhelming and I don't know what I'm doing. That doesn't mean I'll fail or not find a place to live. There are experts who will help me. Once they do, I can unleash my very thoroughly tested process for moving (it involves five steps) and dream of what color I'll paint my bedroom.

Please enjoy this very relaxing photo of Keely. He snores; it's very soothing.

My 40th Year on Earth: In the style of

Here are some things I know:

• When presenting any sort of information in front of a group of people, I have the confidence of a much taller person.
• I owned a Debbie Gibson hat when I was in the 4th grade and I rocked it better than Debbie herself (maybe not, but again, confidence of a much taller person). 
• I store song lyrics in my brain like a hoarder hoards plastic bags (or whatever their preferred hoarding item is). 
• While my tolerance for nonsense and shenanigans is high, my embarrassment level/awkwardness in certain public situations is rather low. 
• I have never sung karaoke. 

We've come to the point in my 40th year on Earth where it's time to accomplish one of the terrifying things on my list: singing in public. I'm not entirely sure why I decided this was a thing I needed to do. It might have something to do with my inability to truly relax, or my control-freak tendencies. I don't know. Singing karaoke seems like something one does to truly let go. It doesn't really require singing ability or talent; just a passing knowledge of the song's lyrics and some showmanship. I occasionally have the confidence of a taller person, or even a mediocre white man, so I can do this. 

Earlier this month, I got called for jury duty. The second I received my summons in the mail, I knew I was going to end up on a jury. I had to go in the week after coming back from New Orleans and ended up on the jury for a murder trial. It was a surreal experience and an incredible contrast to my New Orleans trip the previous week. Anyway, I took Rob Sheffield's book Turn Around Bright Eyes with me. I knew I would need a distraction during breaks, and I wanted to re-read it before my own karaoke journey. Rob had guided my on my trip to Charlottesville, so why not help with karaoke? Turn Around Bright Eyes won't replace Love is a Mix Tape as my favorite of his books, but it's great. It mostly takes place after the events of Love is a Mix Tape; karaoke becomes part of the healing process for Rob after the death of his wife. He falls in love again and sings karaoke everywhere. Woven into the story of Rob's move to New York, and life moving on, are random facts about songs, tips for giving it your all, and observations about the people who make up the karaoke community (which is a thing). It was exactly the book I needed to read while on jury duty. Turn Around Bright Eyes kept me calm while listening to some horrible things. At the end of the week, I stumbled into some karaoke with my brother while we were out celebrating his birthday. I didn't sing that night, but I watched a couple of middle-schoolers and some drunk girls sing their hearts out at a brewery in Woodbridge. It was an odd end to a bizarre week, and it got me more excited for my own karaoke debut.

Anyway, my karaoke date drew closer and I still hadn't picked a song. I could have picked songs from Rob's book, but I felt like all of them were the songs of seasoned karaoke singers. I asked my Facebook community for suggestions. One of my Nyx sisters sent me a great article to get me thinking of the perfect song. Every song on the radio became a potential option. I gave my fellow 66 commuters a show over the last two weeks (singing in my car is my second favorite commuting activity after making up stories about fellow commuters). I listened to songs at the gym by genre, hoping something would spark. I spent most of the day of listening to records and embroidering (as one does) for more inspiration. Walking into the bar, I still had no song. Anita suggested looking at "the book" and deciding based on what's available. This is what I did.

Did I mention that Anita is a karaoke pro? Exactly six years ago to the day, I went with her to L.A. Bar & Grill (Lower Arlington, because that's a thing) and listened to her sing "Walkin' on Sunshine" while I drank like the supportive friend I am. She does a killer version of "What's Up" as well. It's a moment. I trust her karaoke wisdom. She was 100% right; I had to let the book tell me what to do.

I browsed. I checked for songs I had considered during the week. I looked for songs me and Anita discussed over dinner and the first of many beers. I talked to a few people who were also signing up. One woman, who I'll call Donna Summer, told me I couldn't go wrong with Donna Summer. She's right, but she sang "Last Dance" and killed it, so I knew I wasn't going down that road. I also got advice from a dude bro about having fun. He told me an 80s song was risky; people might not know it. This made me A. feel old B. realize he thinks I'm younger than I am which negated the feeling old thing. Karaoke is a lot. I was the last person to sign up on the first page of singers. Accomplishment.

Anita also selected the location and she picked a good one. We went to Rock It Grill in Old Town. It's a great place for karaoke; people are nice, they sing along, and are generally not jerks. The mix of people who went before me varied from the Lynyrd Skynyrd guy who started the night to the fantastic duo who sang "Bohemian Rhapsody" and of course, Donna Summer. There was also a woman who look terrified, but her friends got her through a Shania Twain song. The guy right before me sang a Drowning Pool song; it was a weird moment, but he did it with such conviction that it worked. 

I was nervous. When Drowning Pool guy got up, I knew I was next. My heart started beating a little faster and I downed my last beer. I felt my face getting a little hotter. I started giving myself the pep talk I always give myself when nervous. I looked around the room and saw a packed bar of perfect strangers who were way drunker than me who were all having a great time. They were going to continue having a great time during and after my song. And they did. People danced, people sang along with me. I got high fives and fist bumps on my way back to my seat. I didn't trip. I didn't freeze or throw up. I remembered the words...for the most part. The Go-Go's would be proud of me, I think. (I sang "Our Lips Are Sealed.") Anita went up a few people later and killed "What's Up" like I knew she would. I finished my shot of Jameson, we sang along to "Piano Man" and went home.

I did it. Singing karaoke may not sound like a huge accomplishment to many people, but for me it's a big deal. I don't sing in public. I don't really sing at all. I typically don't put myself in positions where I might, I don't know, trip and fall in front of 100 strangers. Or sing in front of 100 people. I can teach public speaking fundamentals to my colleagues, help Girl Scouts learn about abstract art, and tell vagina jokes to 50 feminists, but singing in public is not my thing. I'm proud of myself. And I want to do it again. Rob Sheffield told me I was going to get hooked and want to sing karaoke all the time, and he's right. I want to do it again. Maybe not every weekend or even every month, but the next time I'm randomly in Woodbridge at the brewery (it's the only one in Woodbridge) on a Friday night, I'm going to sign myself up. And I'll be back at Rock It Grill.