About two months
ago, a friend and I were engaged in a conversation about all of our perceived
shortcomings. We both agreed that we wanted to be our own versions of
Superwoman (my version: 5’9” tall, sings like a nightingale, speaks all the
major languages, knows how to quilt), but often aren’t. She hadn’t lived up to
her expectations of herself that day and was feeling inadequate. My “pep talk”
included a detailed list of all the ways I had performed inadequately that day
and in general, and some theories about how, as women, we are almost automatically
destined for failure. In the quest to have it all and do it all (and, worse, to
do it all well), we put so much
pressure on ourselves to be June Cleaver/Martha Stewart/Marissa Mayer/Mother
Theresa that, no matter how good we are, we never feel good enough.
In response, she
started a blog called The (Im)Perfect Truth Project, celebrating the little
things that don’t go according to plan, which are a much larger part of the day
than the triumphs and things that go right. As for me? I had good intentions
about a timely, introspective blog, but all I’ve accomplished in two months is
lots of thinking-about-it. But in this period of mental marination, I think I
am really on to something. I’ve decided our self-perceived inadequacies come
straight from our genes. It’s all right there in the chromosomes...XX says it
all. We’re just “wrong”…twice. It’s in our nature. So let the second-guessing
of ourselves begin.
I think a
hypothesis is supposed to be followed by some evidence (science was my weakest
subject). And what better evidence to support my theory about all our
self-perceived inadequacies than the Dove experiment that’s all over social
media? In brief, a sketch artist listens to Woman A describe herself, and then
draws her from her description (he never sees her). Then Woman B enters and
describes Woman A to the artist. He draws Woman A again. Two pictures are made;
then we see the pictures, as well as the face of Woman A. The sketch of the
woman drawn from her description is always a homely distortion of herself,
while the sketch drawn from the second woman’s description is fairly accurate.
Woman A recoils at the image of her self-description, as well as her
realization that her self-image is completely skewed.
On a small
scale, I proved it myself just the other. I looked in the mirror and thought to
myself, “I look lovely today,” which should prove that I am not insecure. And
then I was inspired to do some affirmations, because I think it’s important to
remind oneself some of the things that aren’t always verbalized. The next thing
I came up with was: “There are many far-worse parents than me.” Talk about a backhanded
compliment. Even when I am embracing the positive, it’s tainted with subliminal
acknowledgement of not-good-enough.
Roseanne Barr
once said something like, “If the kids are still alive when my husband gets
home, then, hey, I’ve done my job.” And that, I think, was the standard for a
while. There was no parental micromanagement and constant involvement. Was it
worse for kids? Maybe. Maybe not. There’s probably a fine line between neglect
and healthy laissez-faire. But then things
changed. First it was societal – women’s lib and equal opportunity and
you-can-do-everything-a-man-can-do-and-just-as-well – and then it was
self-inflicted – a genuine need to
justify the equal opportunity by excelling at all things. Self-worth became
measured on much higher standards. Merely keeping the kids alive was no longer
good enough.
I am by no means
anti-equality and I don’t advocate a return to a 1950s ideal, but I do recommend low(er) standards in the
quest for self-worth. It’s much easier to meet a goal when the goal is modest.
Sometimes, it is even possible to surpass
expectations regarding a modest goal. But when the bar is set high, it frequently
won’t be met at all, and all that results are feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt.
It’s not that I
have or recommend no standards, it’s
just that the high(er) standards I used to embrace have fallen by the wayside
over the years, either due to time restraints, other priorities or a certain
not-giving-a-crap that seems to have developed with age. Very small examples: I
used to consider being ‘on time’ as being a few minutes early. Now, if I am less than 15 minutes late, I consider that as being early. I used to consider
something clean when it was
disinfected, shiny and cat-hair free. Now, clean
is a relative term defined by very vague parameters. I actually ate something
off the floor in front of company recently. The other day, I wiped Liam’s nose with a sock (which had just
been removed from my foot). A cleaner parent would’ve certainly gotten a
tissue, but I’ve framed it as a resourceful parent using the tools at hand. I
don’t think the event necessarily made me a worse
parent, though it likely made me a grosser parent. But, at the end of the day,
Liam’s nose was clean and he was
still alive. So I did my job, right?
Repeat after me,
ladies: Expect less, want less, pressure yourself less, have less, do less.
Thanks to the XX chromosomes, I quite possibly may be wrong. But thanks to my
low standards, I don’t really care if I am.
