Obsessive Compulsiveness, Explored

I admit to being a perfectionist. Attention to detail was definitely learned from my mother. The lessons she taught about attending to quality and classic design have served me well. She was always impeccably dressed, her home was spotless and beautifully decorated. The word 'casual' had no place in her vocabulary. Putting a jar of ketchup or mayonnaise on the table was anathema to her; condiments were presented in lovely bowls. Always. I have relaxed that standard, but am particular about where I purchase my food and what I consume. Sometimes this is an innocent matter of mere preference, because food is meant to be enjoyed and I want to eat things that I feel taste yummy. Other times, my concern with fat content and calories feels a little compulsive and not a little bit scary.

I also admit to being preoccupied with my physical appearance. Okay, I am concerned about being fat. Again, this is inherited baggage from a mother who wasn't comfortable with her body. She regularly compared herself to other women. Her brother called her 'fatso,' which certainly didn't help either the relationship or mom's self image. I started exercising regularly in my late 20's and never stopped. My daily routine involves vigorous exercise and ingestion of a very healthy diet, which includes a little chocolate or ice cream every day. Most of the time, I feel content with my body. Perhaps I am not perfect, but I am just fine for me.

Perfection is not and cannot be an absolute. Perfection is relative. Absolute perfection cannot be achieved. My desk is a mess and I am okay with that. The rest of my house is beautiful. My husband bought me my favorite chocolate for Mother's day from The Chocolate Lady in Oyster Bay. I started out by eating small tastes of each piece, but realized that I was behaving like someone with an eating disorder. So, I went ahead and ate an entire piece. I enjoyed it. A lot. Nobody can be perfect. We can only be our best possible selves.

POSTSCRIPT:

It was not until I was in the middle of writing this that I realized that today is Mother's Day. My mother, Miriam Rosenblum Spiro, died in 2003. For many years, she lived with Parkinson's disease. Her decline into dementia became apparent in 1992. It was a long, long way down. Mom was a truly gracious lady. Her caregivers called her "Mother Miriam" and told me that mom always thanked them for their help. Ultimately, mom lost the ability to move or speak, but her caregivers made sure that Mother Miriam was always clean and as well-dressed as possible.

The quest for perfection was apparent in the way my mother selected her clothes. Mother chose her clothing like the finest of curators. She had a magical style that was infused into everything she wore. After her death, we cleared out her closets. It was an odd thing to see those clothes as they lay lifeless on her bed, as if their souls had departed. Without Mother Miriam, the spell had been broken. Once again, those clothes reverted to being mere pieces of cloth.

The Only One in the Room

Several months ago, Wes Moore, the author of "The Other Wes Moore," spoke on the Joan Hamburg radio show on WOR 710. Mr. Moore's book compares his life to that of another man with the identical name and home town. Despite commonalities, the two men have disparate life experiences. Mr. Moore, the author, was graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Johns Hopkins University and received a Masters from Oxford University as a Rhodes Scholar. The other Wes Moore was convicted of murder.

During his discussion with Ms. Hamburg, Mr. Moore spoke about his early childhood experience at an elite private school. He discussed how difficult it was to acclimate, unguided, into a totally new culture. While he acknowledged that schools seem more aware of this issue today, he said he would have appreciated a guide who understood his experience. The transition was doubtless difficult for Mr. Moore, and the adults at his new school were probably completely unaware of his confusion. Even if they were aware of his discomfort, they probably wouldn't have had any clue of how to help; it is impossible to completely understand another person's experience unless you have travelled a similar road. All the compassion in the world cannot permit an understanding of the isolation felt in the absence of colleagues with a common cultural background. Experiencing life as an extreme minority, however, provides insight.

My eldest daughter attended a wonderful boarding school in Connecticut. The school was affiliated with the Episcopalian church, but accepted students of all backgrounds and religions, with an intent to encouraged students to retain strong affiliations with their different faiths. Our family is Jewish and the school's Jewish population was well under 10%. Despite heartfelt efforts by the school's staff, there were subtle cultural cues that they couldn't comprehend. After trying to explain the unexplainable, the school asked a Jewish faculty member to help guide the activities of the Jewish children at this school. This was an impressive, commendable effort. For reasons completely unrelated to the cultural issue, my daughter left the school. She started attending our local public high school. Together, my daughter and I noticed that the public high school was utterly lacking in cultural and economic diversity. We also noticed that our awareness of the lack of diversity was reflexive.

Cultural experiences provide a lens through which we view our interactions and color our view of perceived nuances. Two individuals from similar backgrounds will have an unspoken understanding of subtext. Others from differing backgrounds will never perceive, no less understand, that subtext. There are times, though, when those commonalities aren't available. In those circumstances, being 'the only one' can be painful and confusing, but can also be an opportunity to be enlightened.