For the last few days, I’ve been sitting at my desk, in my house, staring. Staring at this site. Trying to figure it all out. Scrutinizing every detail. Twisting and turning the look of things. I just want to make this a place that, when I go to check it out or write a post, I go YEAH! That’s MY site. Right now, I’m not really feeling the connection. This feeling only pertains to the look of things. Not the content. I heard you walk out the door. Don’t do it.

Last night, I was preparing a profoundly analytical piece. Profound to me - and probably my mother - but profound nonetheless. And I sat back in my chair, arching my back, hands folded precariously over my head. And I sighed a heavy, chest-filled sigh. The kind that made my shoulders heave. And I realized, I’m not happy. I’m still just. Not. Happy. I can get crazy with my perfectionist ways, and no one knows this first hand more than my husband who at this same moment was standing at the ironing board, in the midst of my frustration, and kindly told me: “Stop.” Because, without saying a word, he knew I was on the precipice of a huge meltdown with this site. My irritation enveloped him only feet away and must have smelled of rotting flesh. But he was not deterred. He felt no need to stop what he was doing or stand on the desk and give me his dissertation on why perfection is useless, or why I need to stop stressing about things that take time to form, or how I always do this and things turn out better than I expect. This, I knew without saying, this mentality I have, this nagging desire to have everything just-so, is what is keeping me from writing my book or moving forward with a myriad of dreams in my life. Not because I don’t have the story. Not because there is no plot. Not because there is no, dare I say, talent. But because I am my own toughest critic. Always.

And I’d like to sometimes prove my husband wrong in his thinking that he, and only he, knows what I’m thinking before I think it. Not that I mind it. I’d just like to think after eleven years together, I still maintain some mystique. If only an ounce. I’m not asking for a lot here.

Que sera, que sera.