The theme of this post is Fuck Up, Start Over.
I fuck up as much as the next person so I'm not special. However, my tolerance for fucking up has been historically low. Unhealthily low. How you learn to manage fuck-ups is a life skill.
But first, let me tell you about my day: I spilled the cooked rice I was serving to accompany the salmon I was cooking for breakfast (savory for breakfast has been one of adulthood's delightful discoveries.) three times. I had to stop and clean up the floor and countertop three times because I assumed each time that was the last time I'd make that mistake. I also spilled those powdery flakes of Stevia sweetener all over the other countertop twice. My countertops are black. It looked like a dusting of new snow but not as endearing. I'm working on a small sewing project (that must remain undocumented because it's a little gift for someone who may not see it early...I am all about the surprise) that I managed to complete the hard part of (design and layout) only to repeatedly fuck up the easy part (execution). I also dropped my needle for the umpteenth time on a needle-eating area rug. Which meant everything had to stop while I darkened the room and shone a flashlight on a much wider area than you would think a goddamn needle would travel being dropped from 24". Not finding it, by the way, was not an option because this needle is big enough to create a viable piercing. I eventually found it.
Now, you may be saying, "wow, I wish I had such minor problems to kvetch about!" and you would be right. These are the stubbed toe of serious bodily injury problems. They are, however, the incidental things that break a person. The big problems require adrenaline and focus, the little things just pile up and erode you. They are also metaphors.
I am a plodder. Not an attractive adjective but there you have it. When shit piles up, I take a portion of it and begin the slow process of untangling. Actually that's a good metaphor. I will untangle thread/yarn when most people might cut out the snarl and tie the two ends together. It is a impatience-defying act. I haven't always been a plodder. I used to be a crier. A whiner.
When I used to fuck up physically, like falling off a step stool and bonking the hell out of my head, or emotionally, like upsetting someone because I didn't understand/pay attention, or creatively, like failing to come up with a good design solution, I would do a few things. First, I puled like a fucking toddler. Usually this was an internal sulk as I didn't like anyone to have a record of my tantrum. Then, I would fight imposter syndrome or self-flagellation for my stupidity and finally, I would begin the process of starting over. Talking myself out of imposter syndrome and/or stupidity has gotten easier over the years. First of all, I remind myself, you have a proven track record for doing good work and secondly, you are not stupid, so cut that shit out.
Starting over is where the heroics begin. Even if they're small and seemingly insignificant. Starting over is forgiveness, self-confidence and bravery. It is also where the most learning occurs. There is no doubt that we learn more from fucking up than we ever do from doing it perfect the first time. I'd like to think that's not just because the shame of fucking up makes us pay more attention or be more focused. I'd like to think it's not that punitive...and that the process of parsing out a mistake really involves some new insights and sparks new ideas.
I thought that one of the things I'd learn would be how to make fewer mistakes but I'm not sure that ever happens. I may learn not to make that particular mistake again (like the Saint and I have made a pact never to go above the second stepstool step unless the other one is there. That third step is a doozy.) but making rookie mistakes seems to be a thing that never really goes away. I continue to break egg yolks while separating eggs for baking–a task that I have done more or less successfully for 30 years. I have stubbed my toe in a space that I have walked past 300 times, as if someone moved the furniture but nobody did. I have put my shirt on inside out or mismatched my shoes and not discovered it until hours into my work day. I have, at 62, gotten too stoned for simple conversation.
But now, when I fuck up. I find it funny. Unless, it is dangerous. Oh, shit, I still find it funny. Let me give you an example (raise your hand if you've already heard this story.):
I did some contract work for a big company. The kind of company that has a compound where you can drop off your dry cleaning or get a haircut at work. Almost-like-you-could-live-there-and-never-leave-creepy. Anyway, I had a great boss who was on maternity leave. I was also still hustling for other contract jobs and that day I had an interview at Shell for another position. I'd worn a silk blouse and about halfway through the day for whatever reason, I started to perspire (probably undiagnosed peri-menopause) and I know how not-professional sweat-stained silk looks so I crammed tissues into my armpits to stem the tide. My boss needed to send me some work and had her husband drop it off in my office. He's a good guy and we chatted for a few minutes. After he left I glanced down and goddammit if I hadn't forgotten to rebutton my blouse after the erecting the tissue barricade. I had talked to my boss's husband with my shirt open and my bra proudly waving its bosom flag. Years before this, I'd have been mortified. Morti-fucking-fied. But fucking up had become less of an issue by then and laughter had filled in the spaces. A woman with more decorum might not have immediately called up her boss and shrieked that she'd just flashed her husband but I, not enchanted by protocol, told her anyway.
To recap, you gather up all the broken bits, skip the imposter syndrome and self-flagellation, and figure out how to start over. Sometimes that means starting over the next day once you've gotten some perspective and sleep. Sometimes that means sweeping it all in the trash and really starting over.
So, keep fucking up and starting over. It's the human condition and you might as well enjoy it.
P.S. I did it! I wrote 14 posts of 1,000+ words each. I am so proud I could plotz.
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