Perfectionism

In 8^th grade, my English and Civics class required us to write a joint thesis. At the time, the task hovered over my head like Morena Baccarin in ABC’s V. Well, one of my classmates, friends, and neighbors, Greg, wrote his first thesis on how procrastination was a sign of perfectionism, which I’m sure he wrote mere hours before the semester-long deadline. So it is no coincidence that this thesis invaded my personal space. I ossified as a perfectionist around the same time as my first bout with braces.

Whenever I’ve needed an excuse for pushing something off until the last minute, I have always had a scapegoat – my perfectionism. Procrastination has a habit of crawling into all my business, including the time leading up to my flight across the Atlantic back to Ghana. When it comes to international travel, I told my parents it would be prudent to arrive at Dulles two hours before departure. So three hours before departure, I pulled myself away from Franzen’s Freedom (deeper meaning?) to begin packing for the next seven months of my life. Reserving the final hour for frantic packing for the next seven months definitely falls under my perfectionism umbrella.

No problem. Trying to pack lightly, I began gathering my belongings and started to strategically divide them according to weight and value between travelling bags. I ignored my parents’ incessant berating of Brian, shouldn’t you be packed by now? No. Brian, do you have a packing checklist? No. Seriously? No. Brian, are you a perfectionist? Why yes, I thought you’d never ask.

As it turns out, my total travelling volume exceeded my luggage volume. Well shucks. But through a series of rearrangements to optimize my luggage and through forced containment not seen since President Truman, I was able to secure my belongings. Perfect, given that now I should have been at the airport 10 minutes ago. But I was ready to leave, and thankfully my blessed birthers live mere minutes from Dulles.

Brian, what about this home haircutting kit? my mother shouted from the top steps. Shit. For Christmas, I asked for a an electric razor with the description “something I can cut my own hair with.” Papa Garv turned out to be quite the giver and bought the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe set. So instead of a relaxed and sincere send-off from my family, I frantically spent the final moments with my parents unpacking and forcing items into my one suitcase, my one travel backpack, and my one carry-on.

We sped (maybe I made this part up, my father is a law-abiding citizen and driving five over the speed limit provides as much thrill as eating an entire peach cobbler provides to Dudley Dursley) to the airport and quickly got in line at the Virgin Atlantic counter. Standing in a stationary line, I started nibbling my nails, beginning to think that my streak might come to an end at the Virgin counter. I was no longer using my perfectionism as a scapegoat, but rather the Brady Bunch at the ticket counter. The number of questions they had for the Virgin ticket agent was only outnumbered by the number of their checked bags.

My mother sarcastically conjectured Maybe this will finally teach you a lesson. Perhaps perfectionism and procrastination have their limitations. I was beginning to believe her until I finally arrived at the ticket counter. Mr. Gavron. Unfortunately this flight is overbooked and there are no more economy seats. So we’ve gone ahead and upgraded you. Upgrade? Perfect.