Perfectionism

I’m an artist. Of course I am a perfectionist.

Growing up, I learned to put my best foot forward in everything I do. Strive for perfection and never settle for less. Especially in art school. Every stroke of your brush, every scratch of your pencil, every eraser mark, everything must be done with intention and done with perfection.

The afternoon sun beamed down on my hunched-over back, burning me as I added final details to my sketch. The art teacher leaned over my shoulder, breathing down on me. Several tense moments passed as the compliment that I was anticipating never came.

“Look at this shadow here. See how dark it is. Look at this fence. See how straight it is.”

“Now… look at yours. I expect a lot of improvement when I see you again next week.”

For the rest of the day, only the sounds of graphite scratching on paper and aggressive erasing can be heard throughout the art studio.

* * *

I’m a student. Of course I am a perfectionist.

My grades matter to me. My college resume matters to me. So what if I need to stay up past midnight every night? As long as I get full credit on my assignments and tests, it’s worth sacrificing a few hours of sleep.

“Vivian?” I lifted my head up from my desk and saw my teacher extending my report card out to me. I took it from her with a smile and flipped it to the back.

My friend poked me in the arm and peered over at the paper. “What did you get?” I handed her my report card, which printed: SIMPLE AVERAGE: 97.25%.

“Oh, nice,” she said, handing my report card back to me, “I got a 99-point-something.”

I smiled to say, “Congrats!”, but as soon as she turned away, I stuffed my report card into my folder and shoved it back into my bag.

“I guess this calls for another overnight shift,” I say to my parents, who were looking over my report card and staring at me with a mix of confusion and horror.

“No, there’s no need to compare yourself to others,” my mom says back to me. “A 97 is already very good.”

“I guess it is. For some people.”

* * *

I’m a high school athlete. Of course I am a perfectionist.

On the court, you have to be quick, focused, and consistent. Maximize every play, minimize your mistakes. Otherwise, you’re off.

The ref blows his whistle and waves his hand to our team, signaling for the start of our final match. This was it. The last point our opponents needed to win the game, to win the entire tournament.

On the other side of the net, Number 11 is holding a volleyball in her hands and smacking it ruthlessly against the floor. I watched as the ball was thrown upwards and hovered in the air, before flying full-speed over the net with a loud SMACK!

The ball flew over my head and to my teammate in the back, who flawlessly bumped it over to me. I jumped up as high as I could to set the ball. It rose and fell in a perfect arch to our hitter, who raised her arm and slammed it down to our opponent’s side. It bounced off Number 3’s arms and back over the net.

As if in slow motion, the ball soared over our heads, heading straight out of bounds. I automatically began sprinting for the ball and dropped down on my knees with my arms outstretched. I skidded across the floor and watched as the ball kept falling… falling… falling… and bounced off the floor, a few inches away from my arms.

Cheers erupted from our opponent’s team, mingled with the shrill final whistle declaring the end of the match. The disappointment was almost tangible, suffocating our team. I got up off the floor and brushed my knee pads off, then made my way past my stunned teammates on the court, past my stoic coach, and to my friend on the sidelines.

“I really blew that for us, huh?” I mumbled, ripping off my knee pads. She shook her head and smiled reassuringly. “No, you did really great tonight! You should be proud of yourself.” I nodded and returned a smile that barely hid my disappointment.

* * *

I’m a person. Of course I try to be perfect. But people are not perfect, even if you try your best to be.

* * *

My sister finished reading the last line of my writing and turned to face me with a wide grin. “It’s really good! So, when will it be posted on the blog?”

I took my laptop and skimmed through my piece again. “Probably not for a while. I think I need to fix it more before it can be posted.”

(This piece was posted upon insistence by my sister)