Carpe Diem, Ma'am
An Adventure in My Personal Alternate Universe
OK, so this morning I am sitting in the left turning lane waiting patiently to proceed onto State Route 104. An elderly woman is visible in a compact SUV in front of me, also in the left turning lane. There is a long line of vehicles behind me waiting to turn. State Route 104 leads to the nearest Publix grocery store and my favorite Herbal Life Nutrition tea shop. I arrived at this intersection just as the two lanes of traffic to my right caught a red light. In the left turning lane, we have a flashing yellow arrow, which of course indicates that we may legally “proceed with caution.” No traffic is approaching us from the opposite direction.The elderly woman in front of me hesitates to proceed with caution. While she debates proceeding with caution or not, our turning lane light turns red. Now we in the turning lane are doomed to sit for several extra minutes, minutes none of us have to spare because we are busy, busy, busy, you know? All this chaos has been introduced into our collective day because of this hesitant old lady. I quickly exit my car, walk up, and gently tap on the old lady’s window. She rolls down the window and with a smile sweetly asks, “How can I help you, sir?” “Good morning, ma’am,” I say in the kindest, warmest voice I can muster. “Ma’am", are you familiar with the concept of ‘Carpe Diem?" It is Latin for ‘Seize the Day.’ There is a wonderful movie called ‘The Dead Poet’s Society.’ The movie stars Robin Williams and it is in large part about the concept of ‘Carpe Diem.’ I highly recommend that you watch it before you decide again to hold up an entire line of traffic by hesitating to safely proceed with caution at a flashing yellow arrow. Thanks for your time, ma’am. Have a nice day!” We all drive off and proceed, with caution or not, with our busy, busy, busy days. The elderly woman goes home and immediately pours herself a sweet tea, watches the movie on Netflix, learns about Carpe Diem, never hesitates at a flashing yellow arrow again, always safely proceeding with caution, and all is well on God’s green Earth.
Now, of course this scenario did not happen in real life. In real life, this morning I sat pissed off for several minutes fuming about the old lady and her damned hesitant ass. This scenario only transpired in my Personal Alternate Universe, or PAU as I refer to it. In my PAU I have the superpower to fix the chaos that occurs in our everyday lives no matter where I find it. In real life, if I had walked up and tapped on her window, the old lady likely would have: a) ignored me completely, thinking no doubt that I was crazy, or, this being early morning in Alabama, drunk; or b) rolled down her widow and shot me between the eyes with her Glock, this being Alabama; or c) floored it and proceeded through the intersection helter-skelter and without caution as though the Devil or maybe Death himself had tapped on her window.
“Why,” you may be asking yourselves, “does this Old Goat dude need a PAU?” That, dear readers, is a most excellent question. I will explain as best I can. First, you need to understand that both my parents were perfectionists, although they otherwise appeared to be normal human beings to me and to my five siblings, and to other folks too, I suppose.
Let’s begin with my perfectionist father. He was a self-employed owner of a garage where he was an expert in front-end alignment, wheel balancing, and the demanding science of frame straightening. He had a reputation in three states as a wizard in these, to me at least, arcane areas of vehicle repair. Today, wheel balancing is done pretty much the way Dad did it. However, wheel alignment now involves computers and other electronic gadgets. In Dad’s day, it involved chalk, and string and a number of tools that never made any sense to me. I am not sure that anyone even straightens vehicle frames these days; I think they just junk vehicles that are that badly damaged now. In Dad’s day, frame straightening involved jacks, acetylene torches, sledge hammers, pry bars and brute strength, as well as applied geometry and physics. Dad tried to teach this skill to me, but lost me at the brute strength and applied geometry and physics parts. I have had a life-long aversion to math in any of its forms since getting a “D” in fractions in elementary school. It is only by way of one of the Universe’s strange quirks that I was able to fake my way through annual budgets, monthly financial reports, and Excel spreadsheets during my 22 years in hospital management. As to brute strength, you need to talk to one of my younger brothers, the one who is a weight lifter.
As a good perfectionist, Dad approached his work with meticulous attention to detail. I really didn’t consciously appreciate the depth his perfectionism (or mine for that matter) until I became a surgeon. The first time I beheld surgical instruments carefully arranged on the back table and Mayo stand in an operating room, I got it. Dad’s tool benches in his garage were organized with similar care and order. Every tool had a place on his tool tables, and unless said tool was actually being used, it was in its assigned place, just like surgical tools are in an operating room. Being a surgeon requires a perfectionist mindset, as it should from the patient’s perspective. I, and my patients, owe my father and his perfectionism many thanks for his approach to his work, so different from mine, but so similar in some ways.
My mother’s parents were both German, folks known for, among other things, precision and careful organization. Although they had not yet met, they both arrived at Ellis Island in 1910 from their native Transylvania, a part of Roumania, which in turn was a part of Germany. My Mom’s mother was a very stern person—I cannot ever remember seeing Grandma smile. Grandma was a meticulous housekeeper, I mean her home was surgically spotless. You could have safely eaten entire meals off her floors. The “five second rule” was superfluous in regard to Grandma’s floors. Mom once told me that Grandma would finish cleaning the house, and then go out and sweep the street in front of the house, a street regularly swept by city workers!
Grandpa was also a meticulous person. His realm of responsibilities included the garage and the yard, flower beds, hedges, and trees. His garage was the cleanest, best organized garage I have ever seen or likely ever will see, given that most modern Americans, myself included, use their garages as onsite storage units. If you thought my Grandma’s kitchen floor shined, you would have been blinded by the sheen on Grandpa’s garage floor—no smudges, no random oil stains. He had various tools because I witnessed him using them. Where he kept them I have no idea. They certainly were not visible in his garage. He carefully mowed his yard twice weekly. His flower beds and hedges were always neat, free from fallen leaves and petals, like something out of a gardening magazine. He trimmed his trees regularly according to some schedule he kept in his head. In another life, he could have been head groundskeeper at the Masters golf tournament in Augusta, Georgia.
Given this parentage, you will not be surprised to learn that my mother is a perfectionist too. She is 96 now, nearly blind, yet maintains a meticulously clean apartment. Said apartment, just like the house I grew up in, is highly organized and spotless. I have seen my mother many times walk around my childhood home inspecting the carpets and bending down to pick up even the smallest piece of lint. Dust bunnies under beds or furniture were not tolerated. Indeed, I did not know what a dust bunny was until third or fourth grade—never heard the word in our house! Every object in my childhood home had an assigned place, literally everything including our toys. Unless it was in use or was being played with, it was in its place.
So, what does all this have to do with my PAU? It may shock you, though probably not, to find out that I too am a perfectionist. I can tell you from personal experience that this is a blessing. For example, I never “lose” my car keys. They are always where they are supposed to be, either in the bowl near our front door or in my pocket when I am driving. I have never misplaced my wallet. I can always find a book in my voluminous library. In my wardrobe, my shirts, slacks, shorts, shoes, suits,and sport coats are arranged by color. So were my hundreds of neckties back when I still wore neckties.
There is a downside to all this perfectionism however. I suffer from chronic anxiety, for example. When I was younger, I had many traits associated with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I overeat for emotional reasons, a habit related to anxiety. Most importantly, I have a deep need to fix our chaotic world and the people in it, like that hesitant old lady at the intersection this morning. Hell, I have a need to fix the entire Universe and all its beings. Phew, I am so tired! There is no downtime in the life of a perfectionist control freak.
I was not aware of the downside to being a perfectionist until after my failed suicide attempt back in 2007. My psychiatrist led me to this awareness of my perfectionism, and I have spent years in therapy working on it. Along the way, I discovered daily mindful meditation and eventually became a Buddhist. These two areas of activity and knowledge have helped me immensely.
My PAU? That is a coping mechanism I sometimes use in retrospect to soothe the urges I sometimes still have to fix this chaotic world. I know it is not real, but it helps me face reality more calmly. My therapist is comfortable with it. If I ever run into you, you may unknowingly end up in my PAU depending on how badly I think you need to be fixed. Sorry about that. Proceed with caution.
Learning so much about you today! Very relieved you sought the help you needed back in 2007, and that you have useful tools to aid you, as needed.
I’ve referred to myself as a “recovering perfectionist” for decades, having also been raised by perfectionist parents. They didn’t know any different, having sprouted from those roots themselves!My mom, striving to keep order in a home with 5 kids and a collie, and my dad, a German civil engineer whose work ethic oozes from the pores of each of his children. Never took one family vacation, as my dad’s busiest time was in the summer. We are not known for vacationing in my family. It’s a luxury - isn’t there always work to do?!?! 🤦🏻♀️
Anyone who knows me well will attest to the orderliness of my closets and kitchen cabinets. One of my favorite ways to help my mom as a child, was to alphabetize and organize her canned goods and spices. My canned goods are rather willy-nilly, as she fed a family of 7, and it’s just me here. But my spices are fully alphabetical, as orderly as my pharmacy shelves always were when I was the owner. It’s just efficient! 😉
Glad you enjoyed it. This one was both fun to write and a bit therapeutic as well. I wrote it shortly after I got home from the drive where the real event actually happened. I do not have a clearly defined writing voice yet but I seem to be trending toward somewhere between Lewis Grizzard, Jr. and Bill Bryson. I have been amazed that now that I am beginning to (hesitantly) consider myself to be a writer, I am also beginning to see potential writing ideas all around me. I capture these ideas in a little notebook I carry or on my cell phone's note app. My writing tends to include actual real events mixed with fictional touches. The tea shop I mention, for example, is run by a redhead but she is neither gorgeous nor big-breasted. I have given myself permission to mix fiction and non-fiction. I am not writing history after all. My writing sense of humor is evolving.