The Devil’s in the Details

Note to self: don’t wear dark clothes and then sit on this couch. I’m so covered in goddamned cat hair, I’d almost rather go upstairs and change clothes than lint roll myself. Forget “almost.” I am going to change.

I’m disappointed in this outfit, anyway. The sweater’s not as flattering as I thought it would be, it’s wrinkled from air drying, my skirt has little white spots on it, needs to be washed, and the black on my shoes is wearing away.

It’s possible I’m getting too hung up on my appearance.

It’s unlikely that anyone else would even notice these minute flaws unless I drew attention to them. But I’m aware of them, and they will bother me.

And again, I don’t hold anyone else to these rigid standards. If Kevin, the store manager, wore two entirely different shoes to work, I’d probably never even know it unless somebody pointed it out. As an INFJ, my attention to detail is supposed to be a relative weakness, and in many cases throughout my 20ish-year work history, it has been.

Note to self: delete the previous statement when seeking professional writer employment again.

I am selectively meticulous.

I’m supposed to be more of a big-picture gal than super detail-oriented. But I don’t know.

Maybe I am just nit-picky when it comes to me. I have unreasonable expectations of myself because of my upbringing. A self-perfectionist. As if maybe being perfect will finally get me the approval I’ve always sought. But from whom? My mother has passed. Nobody else has ever expected perfection from me, as far as I know.

So it’s an exercise in futility.

Now that I’ve bummed myself out (and maybe you, too), uhh, have a good day *sheepish grin*

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