My Kingdom for a Parasol

My mother says I have perfectionismmania.  It’s a word she made up to define what’s wrong with us.  Or rather, to define one of the things wrong with us.

Ava and Kelli have been looking at me askance for weeks, shaking their heads and giving each other looks.  My mother keeps encouraging me to step away, but I can’t.  Ava keeps saying things like “crazy” and “what’s wrong with you?”  Kelli assures me that no one but me will notice or care. 

But the problem is, I will.  I’ll notice.  I care.  And I can’t step away. 

Do you remember those damn baskets I’m making for the big fundraiser my writers group?  I really hate those baskets, which is confusing because I’m also really proud of them.

There are a few missing things that are totally nagging at me.  I hear them in my head – it’s very loud in my head.  I’ve got whole committees meeting up there: the characters of my current project nagging at me, the characters of the last book nagging at me, my hopes and aspirations which are all attached to MY AGENT, Bills that need to be paid (these are extraordinarily obnoxious), and most plaguing of all, the stupid projects I take on and then become obsessed with making perfect.

There are only a few things I can’t find for these damn baskets.  The main one being a parasol for the lady’s one.  One of those pretty, paper ones you see all the time.  I know after this is over I’ll spot a hundred of them, but for now, they may as well not exist.  I’ve been everywhere I can think of. 

I know it’s stupid.  As Kelli says, no one will notice but me.  But I’LL KNOW.  I’ll know how much better it could have been.  Why can’t I let it go?  ARRRRG!

I can’t write on this anymore.  I have to go finish sewing lace on that &^%$@%& basket.

Send help.