“Hello, my name is Lori, and I have a super-woman complex.”
I don’t know what the heck the twelve-step meeting looks like, but I promise it involves baked goods.
The truth is, super-woman doesn’t exist. Only the illusion of her. So-called Superwomen are really just master showmen, marvels at misdirection and queens of physics-or-biology-defying-prioritization. (“I can get the flyers for the soccer team done first, sew the Halloween costumes next, file the tax return after dinner and hmmm….nope! No time for metabolism today. I can produce insulin tomorrow.”) In addition they live, generally, on a diet of caffiene and anti-depressents with tropical cocktails thrown in for hydration purposes.
We idolize super-woman, we do our best to emulate her.
But I have a super-woman handicap. I’m a terrible procrastinator. This is often news for people, but it’s true. I make up for it by being able to work faster than humans are generally designed to move. And my multi-tasking abilities rival a dual core Intel processor. I just always do everything roughly eleven minutes before the pot-luck-dish/business-proposal/working-scale-model-of-Vesuvius is due.
Actually, the super-woman I admired most confessed that on really bad nights when the expectations of the world flattened her too badly that she would sleep curled up in the closet where it smelled like cat pee.
Really, that’s a coping strategy I aspire to.
I do have the misdirection thing down, though. I can hide things where you’d never think to look, and craft shallow organization systems that by all outward appearances rival the Library of Congress. Or sometimes it’s more mystical. For instance, I will occasionally distract my husband from the chaos and clutter in the bedroom to the point where he tells me doesn’t even notice it. Little does he know that I employ a Jedi-mind-control trick (also known as “nakedness”) to keep him from perceiving things I do not choose for him to.
Not to worry, I only use my powers for good.
The expectations never stop, and where the world opts not to create them, I will happily fill the vacuum on my own. “Could you bring a snack for the volunteers?” gets translated in my head as “I must arrange vegetable platters in the patterns of world flags, and carve cauliflower likenesses of the leaders of NATO countries!”
Honestly, often I just need to be smacked.
How’s Tuesday? I have a break between the meeting of the “Holier-than-thou Literary Academics Society” and the “Band Kids Versus Chess Club Kids Karate Match-Up Fundraiser.”
And where the *%$# did I leave my Prozac?