I am not obsessive-compulsive. I have actually been tested. The same test, however, showed that I am a perfectionist. When I saw how high on the scale of perfectionism I tested, I felt an urge to sit down right there and write tearful apologies to my children. I had always considered myself a patient parent. But perhaps my patience had really been aimed at generously waiting for them To Get It Right. As I wrote, tearful apologies are way overdue. Back in the days when I roamed the Earth in Brooks Brothers suits, with gleaming nails on hands and feet, when I found myself having to meet the challenge of working with both attorneys, with their own ideas, on one end of the spectrum, and printers, with their own ideas, on the other, being a perfectionist was clearly an asset. I could remember everything. And not just that. I could remember everything accurately. I once defined a print-production manager as Hitler in heels. And I meant it. But then came the “signs.” I began to feel impatient with layouts of menus in restaurants. And, when I drove about, I would edit the copy on billboards. I couldn’t stop myself. I liked having something for my mind to straighten up [...]![]()
