It is no secret that I have some perfectionism issues. I have always lived with the belief that if ALL balls are not juggled skillfully, I will find myself, family in tow, zipping down a slippery slope, sans seat belts, landing all of us in a rancid mound of oozing, disorganized, and penniless goo.
I have often toyed with the musing of what may come of an experiment with this theory, perhaps letting one ball escape from the circus act. Until this moment however, I have not yet been brave enough to attempt such an unnerving test. Now, treading in a murky pond, filled with details I have no possible way of which to tend, with barely a protruding eyelash above water, it seems I have no choice.
Donned in safety goggles and a white coat, a “how to” book on Apathy tucked under my arm, I am stepping up to the petri dish with a handful of beakers. Some of the contents:
- 2011 Holiday cards are NOT being sent
- The checkbook contains a whopping imbalanced error of $1.47
- There is a pile of sheets in my room, sitting on a box whose contents have no relation to linens
- Voice mails remain unanswered in my inbox
- Text messages are left unread
- My son is addicted to Disney’s “Little Einsteins”
- There is no weekly excel sheet budget, displaying to the cent, what is coming in and what needs to go out. (possibly because I find our current monthly nut to income ratio unsettling)
- My husband and I own nary a long sleeved shirt between the two of us. (this may cause slight discomfort at our new residence in the Northeast)
- I went to the park in a light pastel pink shirt, wearing a black bra underneath. (this was an inadvertent trial, of which I was unaware until hours later and after countless encounters with other human beings)
- My son’s hair went unbrushed today leaving him with bed-head from morning till bedtime
These are only some of items in the lab. I’m certain you’ll all wait with bated breath for the outcome of this fascinating exercise of human science. Although, preliminary signs are pointing toward a picture of bounced checks, a house of clutter, a white trash mother out of “My Name is Earl”, mind-numbed, couch potato, unkempt children, and some frost bitten arms. This will only prove the validity of my original theory:
The dropping of even one ball, no matter how small, leads to the avalanche of them all.
A touch extreme? OK. Fine. Perhaps I’ll stop painting for you a tragic vision of pessimism and go pack a box. The children are sleeping.