See, I told you I loved this subject:)
Did anyone read that old book, Diary of a Mad Housewife? I read it ages ago and loved it. It's about this woman who is having all sorts of middle-aged angst in upper middle class 1960's New York. Her husband is a social climbing pompous ass, her children are snobs and the man she ends up having an affair with is mean. Really mean. She thinks she's losing her mind and keeps a diary about her experiences. In a wonderful twist, her husband goes to her old shrink, who in turn tells him that Bettina isn't the one who is nuts, he is. Bettina realizes that the person she really wants to be is a homemaker... not the modern, social climbing version of the word, but the organized, motherly type. I thought it was fabulous that a feminist book would have the woman making a choice like that because it isn't very PC. But I think the operative word here is choice.
So what does that have to do with perfectionism? Well, when Bettina couldn't sleep she would think of this woman, (I can't remember the name she gave her organized alter ego) and keys... the keys to the perfectly organized pantry, the cupboards of dishes, put away in just the right place, the polished silver... this would make her feel warm and fuzzy and put her to sleep.
I know the feeling. I would love to have my linen closet be full of perfectly ironed and folded linens. Hell, I would just like a linen closet filled with something besides limp, hairy blankets and old movies. I want my hutch to be filled with lovely vases, wine glasses, and silver trays for entertaining.(Right now, the hutch is a drop off place for everyones crap, broken sunglasses I plan on fixing someday and the dog's leashes) I would love to have printed out list of things to do in the garden each season, and then actually do it. I want my home filled with freshly cut flowers, arranged by me. (If I do manage to get some flowers, I usually leave them out way longer than the pull date.)I love the thought of actually washing and cleaning your winter clothes and putting them away.
I really, really, really love the thought of being that person. I just can't quite seem to make it. I'm too tired for one. I'm too busy for another. I mean, who would write while I was planting bulbs for drifts of spring daffodils? And three, it would give my perfectionistic, type A little superman of a husband WAY TOO MUCH satisfaction.
And I'm just too much of a rebel to allow that.
But I did make homemade granola yesterday.