I am not a happy person generally. It comes from being a perfectionist. Of course, I am a half assed perfectionist. I only care about perfection in some things and not others. My brain locks up and ceases to function when paperwork is involved. Financial matters stress me out to no end. Me and taxes? Well, that is a level of stress I simply despise. I have a cluttered desk, room, mind and life. This is not where my desire for perfection lies.
I have very few happy memories. It’s not because I have had an unhappy life. No, far from it. My parents are wonderful and my brothers are cool and have never tried to cause me bodily harm except for that one time they encouraged me to try and swing across Buffalo Bayou on a vine. It didn’t go so well. I ended up covered in some could smelling oily mud. I smelled so bad the dog wouldn’t get near me.
I have a loving wife, the best dog in the world, three cats that haven’t tried to kill me in my sleep and one grouchy old cockatiel.
But when I think back on my life the only vivid memories I have are of times when I screwed up. This goes back to one of my earliest memories. I was wolfing down the hall going to be dropped of for mother’s day out and I somehow thought I wasn’t holding my mom’s hand any more. I immediately grabbed a different hand near to me and then realized I’d let go of my mom’s hand and grabbed the hand of a total stranger. Who remembers that kind of thing? The whole incident took maybe two seconds to straighten itself out and I was only two or something at the time. Still, there it is as clear as day. Now ask me about my first date, first kiss, first anything. Go ahead and ask. I can’t recall them at all.
I suppose in my screwed up way I could say that all those firsts must have gone well simply based on the fact that I can’t remember them at all. If they had gone poorly then I’d remember them as clear as day.
I could dwell on this, but instead I’ll just change the template for my blog. That will make everything all right.