One recent morning I made a hasty decision to clean the entryway to our house. Up until that fateful moment, I had simply considered the entryway to be a place where coats could be hung on hooks and shoes flipped onto a tile floor or placed haphazardly on a rack. We had moved into our home over three years ago, so I guess I figured it was time to give this area its first thorough once-over.
After clearing out shoes and coats, I scrubbed the woodwork, washed the three large, rectangular windows, repainted the baseboard, swept and mopped the floor, aired out the rug, and, finally, reorganized the footwear and jackets. Observing my handiwork, I thought, “I’ve really accomplished something here. This is one clean, darn good-looking entryway!” Ah, the simple joys of home ownership.
Soon, a dark realization intruded upon my new-found pride: “I’m an idiot. Look what I’ve done. I’ve cleaned the entryway! What was I thinking? Now I want the entryway to be clean! This is now important to me!” For three years I had walked through this 7’X7’ area without giving it a second thought. I couldn’t have cared less about minor paint chipping or a dirty floor. (Did I mention I live on a dirt road and have a gravel driveway?) After all, it’s just a friggin’ entryway, the one place in the house that’s supposed to get dirty!
When I was in grade school (well after the invention of the wheel), my mother would look at my report cards and zero in on any marks lower than an A: “You got a B- in Self-Discipline! And what’s this, a B+ in Gets Along with Others? You don’t get along with others any better than a B+?” Leaving aside guilt, I was raised with a high bar: excellent work was the goal, and a very good job wasn’t good enough. Leave the B’s and C’s to other slackers. In this house, we strive for excellence.
I have spent much of my adult life thinking about bars — bar chords (I’m a guitarist), Snickers (I’m overweight), a former pub in Harvard Square. Most importantly, I continually examine the standards I set for myself and against which I measure my skills, intelligence, and general sense of worth. How perfectly must I shovel snow off the back patio? Do I really need to move this chair every time I vacuum? The laundry will be clean enough using the “Speed Cycle,” won’t it? And how the heck can I be content solving Wednesday crossword puzzles when my wife eases her way through Saturdays, using a pen no less?
Don’t get me wrong: I maintain a very high bar when it comes to choosing a surgeon or an attorney, or when selecting a pound of deep, dark-roasted coffee — you know, things that truly matter. Sometimes excellence is important. Sometimes perfection saves lives. But striving for excellence in day-to-day living is just plain exhausting. After raking for many hours, why moan about having collected only about 80% of the leaves? Why not think: “Wow! I’ve gotten rid of tens of thousands of leaves in less than a week! Nice going.”
My goal now is to lower the bar. Why is that so hard? I want to be satisfied with a job pretty-well done and feel fulfilled by less-than challenging endeavors. I’d like to get halfway through a Friday puzzle and still retain a modicum of self-respect. I would love to live by the “intention” I often set during yoga classes: just let it go.
Oh, man! There’s already a finger smudge on an entryway window. I think the Windex is…. No, wait. Maybe not.
Gene Stamell is a retired elementary school teacher and a singer-songwriter. He lives in Leverett.