"Let it Go"
That's the advice one Real Simple columnist gives readers of this month's issue for those moments when they feel the need to be right. "Just let it go and ask yourself, 'do I want to be right, or do I want to be happy?'"
Well, that's a rather simplistic view of the world, isn't it?
What she doesn't tell the reader is how to get 34 years of pessimistic programming to do a 180. Sorry, but I can't turn into Mary Sunshine just because I read a few pages on how great it is to just not let shit bug you.
I have a Need to be Right. Maybe it's because I was chronically wrong throughout my childhood (and indeed, in my adult life) where my parents were concerned. I have a perfectionist streak six miles wide, and I don't handle criticism well. (Shocking!) Criticism feels like attack to me, and when criticized, I take one of two roads--(1) wrack my brain to find a way to be right, or (2) hang my head in shame and wonder how I can look at myself in the mirror every day.
I thought about this article this morning as I paced the lobby of the Clay County courthouse, waiting for some inept clerk to give me my damned ex parte order so I could leave. After an hour, I went back to the clerk's hidey hole and asked how much longer it would be. Turns out someone dropped my file on her desk while she was on break and she didn't even know it was there.
Because I work with the fine employees of the Clay County Circuit Court every day, I know they're not the best and brightest of the bunch. But standing around the courthouse for almost three hours didn't make me a happy camper. I was right. And the court was wrong for not allowing me to continue the stupid case over the phone yesterday (dipshit still hasn't been served). The clerk was wrong for not paying attention to her desk contents and making me wait for freakin' ever. Db is wrong for being a general asshole and forcing me to get a damned restraining order in the first place.
I tried to "let go" my need to be right, but it wasn't happening. If I added up the total hours I've spent picking my nose in one courtroom or lawyer's office or doctor's office or another because of db, I'd have time for a nice vacation. Or twelve.
So I may have, as the author said, given myself a few more wrinkles above my nose. Whatever. I'm not Type B. I never have been, I probably never will be. Yes, this will probably cause me to die younger than my like-water-off-a-duck's-back husband.
But that's why I married a younger man. ;)
Well, that's a rather simplistic view of the world, isn't it?
What she doesn't tell the reader is how to get 34 years of pessimistic programming to do a 180. Sorry, but I can't turn into Mary Sunshine just because I read a few pages on how great it is to just not let shit bug you.
I have a Need to be Right. Maybe it's because I was chronically wrong throughout my childhood (and indeed, in my adult life) where my parents were concerned. I have a perfectionist streak six miles wide, and I don't handle criticism well. (Shocking!) Criticism feels like attack to me, and when criticized, I take one of two roads--(1) wrack my brain to find a way to be right, or (2) hang my head in shame and wonder how I can look at myself in the mirror every day.
I thought about this article this morning as I paced the lobby of the Clay County courthouse, waiting for some inept clerk to give me my damned ex parte order so I could leave. After an hour, I went back to the clerk's hidey hole and asked how much longer it would be. Turns out someone dropped my file on her desk while she was on break and she didn't even know it was there.
Because I work with the fine employees of the Clay County Circuit Court every day, I know they're not the best and brightest of the bunch. But standing around the courthouse for almost three hours didn't make me a happy camper. I was right. And the court was wrong for not allowing me to continue the stupid case over the phone yesterday (dipshit still hasn't been served). The clerk was wrong for not paying attention to her desk contents and making me wait for freakin' ever. Db is wrong for being a general asshole and forcing me to get a damned restraining order in the first place.
I tried to "let go" my need to be right, but it wasn't happening. If I added up the total hours I've spent picking my nose in one courtroom or lawyer's office or doctor's office or another because of db, I'd have time for a nice vacation. Or twelve.
So I may have, as the author said, given myself a few more wrinkles above my nose. Whatever. I'm not Type B. I never have been, I probably never will be. Yes, this will probably cause me to die younger than my like-water-off-a-duck's-back husband.
But that's why I married a younger man. ;)
posted by Mitzi Green at 3:50 PM
2 Comments:
I, too, was born with a perfectionist streak. But in my advanced age (read: 39 and adolescence), I figured I would rather be happy than correct.
I only fight for things I know if I'm right, like knowing where lost socks go (Emporia, Kansas--I kid you not), the mascot of KU (The Jayhawk), and if argyle truly clashes with stripes (dude, it SO totally depends).
After living right next to Clay County for 30 years (only 12 of them cognizant of exactly WHERE Clay County was), I feel for you dealing with the kind, caring, downright country folks you find there.
"downright country" is a pretty accurate description.
and yes, it was spinal tap. YOU WIN. :)
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