The lawns are pitch perfect, along with everything else
There was a question raised on the Breakfast television programme the other day about how often you clean your house.
“What an odd question,” I thought. Isn’t that something that you do every day until the day you die?
Apparently not. Just me then? As war wages on throughout the world and thousands of hardworking Kiwis are losing their jobs daily, my deep-thinking self was pondering how much of my life I have wasted cleaning.
The answer is a lot. There is an inordinately large chunk of my personality that simply can’t handle anything being dirty, disorganised or (God forbid), out of place.
My family know this about me, my friends all know this about me and co-workers always comment on the tidy state of my desk.
This particular column is going to do nothing to help my single status, because the more I’ve thought about it, the more tragic I feel about myself.
The term “obsessive compulsive” has been happily bandied about with regard to me since forever, so I did a bit of research just to see if I couldn’t pigeonhole myself just a little bit more.
According to The Mental Health Foundation OCD is a “type of personality disorder characterised by intrusive and frequent obsessions and ritualistic behaviours”.
I’m out of the woods. Not me. I turn the light off once - not five times. I grew up as one of four in a three-bedroom home.
I have been like this since I was little. I shared a bedroom with my older sister and her side was always messy. My side was immaculate.
When I baby-sat as a young person, I would always clean the house of the parents who had gone out so they would have a nice tidy house to come home to as a little treat, and if Mum and Dad had a dinner party, I would do the dishes.
One of the other reasons for this was that I could listen to the action of the adults, the dishes were a small sacrifice to be allowed to stay up late.
I can’t relax if there is a dirty kitchen, my wardrobe and shoes are pathetically well organised and if someone popped in to see me when I owned or rented my own home, I would apologise if anything was out of place or not up to my standard.
The general response to this was fits of laughter from the guest followed by: “You should see my place”. Interestingly enough, I couldn’t give a hoot what anyone else’s house looks like and never judge – go figure.
My friends, however, have benefited from my particular skill set.
I am always called on to organise their wardrobes or their pantry.
I am a weapon with a labeller and nothing makes my heart sing more than a beautifully organised pantry.
I love leaving something better than I found it.
One of the reasons that I have had a bit of time to think on this is because, for the last two months, I have helped a friend get her home ready for sale and am giving her a hand at the place she now resides in.
We had a conversation about how polar opposites we are.
She is a superhero as she raised three children by herself and I only had one.
But we discussed hut-building when our kids were young.
If my daughter wanted to build a hut with any blanket or sheets she could find in the linen cupboard, I would just see work. The clean-up.
My friend, on the other hand, said that when her kids did that, it would stay in the lounge for three months.
I felt the same when my daughter wanted to bake something. Oh, we laughed. But secretly I envied that she didn’t care and I felt sorry that my daughter had me as a mother.
The other thing is that it isn’t just limited to inside the home.
I take pride in mowing a lawn to look like Twickenham with immaculate lines and I like my plants super tidy and a garden with no weeds.
How I have found time to carve out a career I do not know because being this pedantic takes a lot of energy and time. However, I have always just considered it the way I am.
The only problem with this is that it makes me feel very sad for me.
I continued my investigative endeavours and it didn’t get any better.
My conclusion is that I am both a perfectionist and an apologist.
Psychology Today says: “For many perfectionists, there is an underlying fear that they are not good enough, won’t succeed, or won’t be loved if they don’t strive for perfection”.
At its core, perfectionism may essentially be an act of disowning our true selves. It’s often a coping mechanism for shame and inadequacy.
Perfectionism thrives in convincing us that striving for it will make us our best self, when, in reality, it can cause us to play small and take us away from our true selves.
As I consider the prospect of giving myself a serious smack in the chops and being nicer to myself, I’ll give you Albert Einstein’s take on my predicament: “If a cluttered desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, of what then is an empty desk a sign?”