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My name is Dave T. and I am a perfectionist.
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Somehow, in my wonder years, I acquired the idea that unless
I was perfect I was not acceptable, I was not lovable, and I definitely did not
deserve a trip to Disneyland.
I came to feel in my many moments of imperfection like a
hopeless case. I would set high
standards for myself, then fall below those standards, then feel guilty and
resolve to try again. And the cycle
would repeat.
And there was that scripture, memorized in Sunday School
right out of the Bible: "Be ye, therefore, perfect, even as your Father in
Heaven is Perfect." You’ve got to
be kidding me! That put God's seal of
approval on the idea that I had to be a flawless gem of a guy with my
fingernails perfectly cut and cleaned. And yet how could I be perfect? After all, even though I am a “little lower
than the angels,” I'm still a mortal.
Part of the problem was my step-dad’s drill sergeant
demeanor. His verbal chastisements were
more effective than a cattle prod in the buttinski. I heard that Ralph’s dad down the street had
one of those.
I began to obsess about things I could be perfect at: Tying my shoes with the bows perfectly the
same, keeping my toys perfectly organized in the toy box, not spilling a gram
of food off my plate (in deference to the starving children in China), and
making sure our cocker spaniel Fleacheck was fed every night by 6 p.m. And
every morsel of dog food had to be removed from the can. An infraction of my
myriads of petty laws would result in guilt feelings that felt like street
sludge in my stomach. It didn’t set well and it didn’t age well.
And because I could never gain the approval of my step dad,
how could I possibly gain the approval of God?
My pursuit of perfection turned me into a neurotic prisoner
of my own design. I had to make sure I
removed my belly button lint before stepping into the shower. If not, it might begin to accumulate in the
pipes, causing a blockage, and eventual flooding. And I would burn in Hell for it. The thought of burning in Hell would make me
sweat, requiring another shower and another lint removal ritual, lest I offend
someone.
And then the willful sinning. One day in Mr. Stewart’s
fourth grade class, I changed my score on a math test from 98% to 100%. My
buddy Butch saw me do it. He just said, “Who cares?” Didn’t he understand? After all, anything less than perfection, and
I stunk like doggie dung.
It took me a long time to learn there was a huge difference
between the perfectionism I was adopting as a lifestyle and the perfection
Jesus called me to. It took me a long
time to find the combination that set me free.
That secret was revealed to me in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, back
in the mid-1980s. For me, it was a time of ponderous personal difficulties and
wondrous workplace intrigues.
Today, I share that secret with you. And, as a bonus, I will tell you how I became
perfect.
My troubles began when I arrived late at work on May 5,
1986, breaking my perfect on-time record of 221 consecutive days. That’s especially unforgivable to someone who
had just been promoted to Executive Vice President.
As I rushed into the foyer, I nearly ran into Ms. Bertha
Bundt, who stood impassively holding a little notebook and some forms. “Mornin’,” I said cheerfully. She responded with her usual air of scolding
superiority. “I’m sure the Boss will
want to hear about this. I warned him you were too young and
irresponsible.”
Ms. Bundt was a 55-year-old pit bull and Barbie-doll combo,
whose sole mission in life appeared to be ripping employees to shreds, and she
had been on my back ever since my promotion.
No one had heard her say a positive word about anyone. To make matters worse, she was vaguely
reminiscent of my step dad.
And yet, if anyone was perfect, it was Ms. Bundt. Her clothes were perfect, her jewelry was
perfect, her make-up was perfect, and her desk was the only desk as neat and
perfectly clean as mine. Her hair was
perfectly molded into a giant beehive shape.
I always imagined a rat named Louie lived there and whispered wicked
things to her.
And now there I stood before the tall painted monster, two
minutes late.
She sneered at me. “I’ll make a note in your file.” She jotted that down.
Up to now, I had put up with her steamrolling tactics and
bullying. It was time to put my executive foot down.
“And I’ll make a note in yours,” I said playfully while
retrieving my brand-new Sony microcassette recorder from my pocket. “Let’s see.
Away from her desk monitoring the parking lot while missing important
calls to the Boss.” I clicked off my
recorder with a triumphant flair.
My insubordination momentarily stunned her, but she quickly
recovered and narrowed one eye as if the other held a monocle.
“You’re not going to get away with this, young man. I’m the only one here authorized to keep
files on people.” Her angry finger
wagged like Louie’s imaginary tail in her pompadour.
“You mean the files with the swastikas on them? My files have little pink hearts on
‘em.” I was as sweet as synthetic sugar.
“Your files! What files are you talking about?” she screamed in
a file frenzy.
I was matter-of-fact. “My files. I have one on you and one on Louie.” This was the first time I’d mentioned Louie to
her, but I felt the moment was…well…perfect for it.
“Who’s Louie?” she demanded, momentarily confused.
“Don’t deny you don’t know Louie,” I said with feigned
shock, glancing at her hair-do. Wow! She must have added an extra layer of
lacquer to it. The face below her hair
was turning magma red, but before Ms. Bundt could erupt again, I quickly added,
"By the way, the Boss said you'd give me the combo to the safe."
Now the safe combination was the symbol of power at RB
Metals. Only the Boss and Ms. Bundt had
it. And this was no ordinary safe. It was like a giant walk-in closet with
shelves for important documents, certificates of authenticity, gold and silver
medallions, and other valuables.
She changed the subject. "You have some forms to fill
out." She slapped a pile of forms
in my hands and sashayed away.
I quickly glanced at them. "I've already filled these—“
"—Then fill them out again. We need everything updated." She didn’t look back.
I started after her, but just then, Born Again Ben strolled
by and pulled me away, muttering something about a meeting.
Ben was once a long-haired New York drug-addict until he
found what he called “Twelve Steps.”
Now, he was our clean-cut marketing guy here in sunny Southern
California—tall, gangly, and relaxed.
And being from the East Coast, he wore only traditional business attire
and shined wingtips. “Dave, you need to
be more careful.”
“You mean with Beelzebub’s Banshee. You’re probably right.”
He chuckled as we stopped near the giant walk-in (and
locked) safe. “Don’t let her get to
you,” he said gently.
“I kept my cool,” I defended. “No big deal.”
“Well, she got Lana
demoted yesterday.”
“Demoted. We do that
here now?”
“Actually, she demoted Lana herself.”
I was only mildly surprised.
Ms. Bundt always made sure that anyone who crossed her paid for it, and
Lana had gone to the Boss with a list of grievances from Operations.
“Accused Suzy of siphoning off extra coffee yesterday. Said,
‘you’re not getting away with this.’” Ben laughed and continued, “Look, for
years, Ms. Bundt has been the boss’s right arm.
She’s his executive secretary.
Suddenly, you’re his executive vice president and you’re his right
arm. That’s two executive right
arms. She kinda has to get rid of one of
them, and it isn’t hers.”
I involuntarily grabbed my right arm, and then I noticed
some lint on my suit coat and quickly brushed it off before Ben could notice
the imperfection.
“She feels threatened.
Just stay cool and do your job.
Remember, she has her allies.”
Born Again Ben had a point.
Even though the Boss liked me and I felt pretty secure, Ms. Bundt was a
force to be reckoned with. Nevertheless,
I dismissed the thought of impending danger.
I worked an extra hour that day, and it had nothing to do
with Ms. Bundt’s terrorist network. I
had felt compelled to make up for the two minutes I was late that morning.
After all, I had broken my perfect record and the guilt slag from that had not
properly digested. It was time to set new goals again….
This is ridiculous,
I thought. I shouldn’t have to feel like Judas Iscariot for being late to work. I was growing weary of being the perfect
little Mormon boy. Something had to be
done, and whatever it was, I’d have to be perfect to pull it off. That would be my new goal!
Later,
when I was home, I grabbed my Bible and re-read Matthew 5:48. There it was again—that command from Jesus to
be perfect. And then I noticed something
I had not seen before, something amazing!
If
you’d like to read the remaining 9 chapters, including the part about how I became an illegal
alien, for super cheap ($5.95 for physical book; $2.99 for ebook), click here now.
