Life In The Dumpster As We Live Up To Someone Else's Standards

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If you could be anyone at all, who would you be?

You’ve heard this question. It’s an oldie but goodie. It helps put a finger on a big dream to which we might not be giving oxygen. Even if I can’t be the first person on Mars, I might consider astronomy or astrophysics as my college major, or I might join a night sky viewing club.

A twist on this question — Who wouldn’t I want to be? — helps bring my life into better focus. If I can see how good I have it, maybe I’d calm my worries and wants, and make space for gratitude.

Both exercises are useful and common practice for people, whether they were asked the question, or it naturally occurs to them to imagine these things.

The bones of these questions are a comparison exercise. It’s a momentary escape from myself to see what life might look like otherwise. When I do this, two things happen. I drop me and add someone else. Then, I compare — A versus B.

If I dream of being an astronomer, I compare this to my present situation and am faced with a decision — do I want to do the work to become one? It’s a healthy question.

The trouble comes when I start to compare at every turn. The goal is no longer the fascinating accumulation of knowledge on Mars. It’s now to live as someone else would because that certainly must be better than how I’m doing it.

I will want to know only one thing, and constantly: Do I live up? If I don’t, I'll spend precious years trying to measure up. That’s a long time trying to live as we think we should while our real selves bide time in a dumpster because that’s where we’ll have lived all those years, and oh my hell, it’s stinky in there.

Here’s the weird logic: I don’t live up to someone else. I live as someone else.

I know we categorize ourselves into groups based on quality, ability, trait, and access. I know we need to abide by the group’s standards of behavior to maintain access to the group. We’re a social animal. But abiding is one thing. Assuming the standards are cockamamie impossibilities that, in truth, no one asks for is quite another.

Yes, the condition of your home shouldn’t be a community health risk, otherwise, the health department will have to intervene. No, that speck on the floor will not be noticed by your last-minute guest and even if it was, that guest wouldn’t bat an eye if you dumped a bag of flour on the floor as they chattered on about their story of how bad the traffic was to get to your house. They wouldn’t care. They just want to be heard. At the very least, they’d shrug and figure you’re about to make breaded chicken on the floor.

Last weekend my brother called the day before he arrived with his sweet dog to ask if I’d dog sit while he went to DC to play in a poker tournament. This is his side passion and he’s nationally ranked. He’s a numbers guy — he’s not a perfect house guy. He wouldn’t have cared one bit if my house wasn’t perfectly clean. Yet, this was my first impulse when I said, “Of course! No problem. Come on down.” I hung up the phone and sighed. Dang. I had a lot of work to do to make this place look beautiful.

I didn’t. My house sits at the baseline of “decently clean”. But wait a second! There are specks on the floor! There is dust! The kitchen counters can stand another wipe. If I do a truthful comparison exercise — my house versus others’ — I’d walk away chastened that I wasn’t insanely grateful for every centimeter of this house every second of every day.

But over the years, my habit was to feel the urgency to “live up” to others in various ways.

I felt this when people would come to visit which is why hosting became arduous — mentally and physically. I was sure that my guests would scrutinize my home for flaws. I’d kill myself to ensure my house lived up to a fabricated standard of friends and family. It never lived up because this standard was not even a standard. It was an emotional reaction to feeling less than. The specks on the floor were an innocent proxy. Poor specks.

It was an odd thing, though. I felt good about myself in many ways, but in this one way, there was a hole of inadequacy. Meanwhile, every one of my guests paid no attention to my home — or they loved my home — as all they wanted was a basic snack, a simple drink, and my attention. This is what people want — acknowledgment. Not specklessness.

For you, it might be a different standard you’ve had to kill yourself to achieve. There are endless categories of perfection. Whatever floats your boat. A perfect appearance? Raising highly successful children? Delivering flawless presentations? Being an expert right out of the gate? Having an irreproachable physique? Take your pick. There are scads for every perfection inclination.

The sad story is that through all these false standards, we’re missing out on the best moments of our lives — which arguably is every moment. Life is a simple string of moments in time. It’s not a hazy cloud of assumed “having to be.” It’s one thing to enjoy the work of being an astronomer. It’s quite another to live in a race with impossible standards lessening the fun of studying about the volcano on Mars.

If I never worried about impossible standards, then I’d pursue that career with curiosity and interest. I’d accept my appearance, live peacefully in my home, support my kids’ passions, and laugh a little in that presentation. I’d be so grateful that at 60 years old I could still lay mulch in my yard.

At the end of each day, I’d even enjoy being in my bed because not only would my body be in it, but my heart and mind would, too.

I’ve been skewing toward this thinking lately. I've read others’ wisdom and contemplated it. I try being lil’ old me and realize how good I have it. Every day I get better at saying no to having to live up. Every day I understand more about what people want — not perfection from each other, but acceptance and understanding. I’ve found that some folks even prefer their chicken breaded right there on the floor.

And so, this is how it was with my brother. I got a grip, wiped the kitchen counters, swept a bit, changed out the towels, then chillaxed and waited for him to arrive. My time with the dog was sweet and fun. I had a writing companion next to my leg.

Out of the sky fell calm and it doused my having-to-be. Sometimes all it takes is a stark face-to-face with superior logic to jolt you out of a long-held assumption and practice — people simply don’t care as much as we think they do. Plus, like it or not, I’m watching myself and my loved ones grow old. Life is short. I can either live as I have for the rest of my time or pivot right here, right now to the real me. To the only me.

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Happy Summer, all!