My type-A, make-my-bed-every-morning, perfectionist self has disappeared faster than a package of Oreos at our house. She's gone. And here I am, up to my elbow fat in laundry, toilets that need scrubbing, and meals that need making wondering if I'll ever be able to woo her back into my life.
I used to be the definition of an overachiever. I'm sure I even tried to blow out more diapers as a toddler than any of my baby friends. (You're welcome, Mom.) I loved (note the past tense) doing one million things at one, juggling an unmanageable amount of projects like I was the fruit of Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray's loins.
I used to do so many things. I look back in college and high school, and I wonder when I had time to pop a squat on the pot, let alone do all the things I did . . .
Part of this ridiculous urge to constantly do and achieve stems from my insatiable competitive drive (that's another post altogether) and wanting people to like me. "Look at her! How does she do all those things?" (PS. No one has ever said that about me. That movie with Sarah Jessica Parker is actually not my life story. Mission failure.)
You know what I think really killed her, my perfectionist self--I'm talking stabbed her between the boobs with a butcher knife and wrung her scrawny little neck into the ground? Wedding planning. ("It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . .")
Now is a different story. Now my idea of productivity is lounging on my sofa, watching reruns of Ellen while nomming on a pound of bacon that someone (Grahm) had to cook for me. I'm about as motivated lately as a stuffed walrus. It's as if my body is saying, "We've done this overachieving thing for 24 years. Time to be lazy."
Now I'm just tired. All the time. My thoughts upon hearing my obnoxious alarm clock every morning are as follows and I quote, "Crap. Must. turn. off. I can get ready in five minutes, right? When can I go back to bed?"
I wish I could say that I had too much is on my plate. (I also wish that wasn't figurative.) But I don't. I'm just tired and crotchety and constantly thinking about curling up in a hybernating ball of boring. I feel sorry for my future children, that is, if I'm not lazy enough to, ya know, make them. (...Too far?)
Come back, perfectionist Jena, my laundry needs you.