I've been thinking a lot lately about forgiveness and compassion.
I have compassion for Lil' Frankfurter and forgive him every time he barfs. I don't have quite the same amount of compassion when he poos in the house. I'm working really hard to forgive him for eating 27 toys and causing us both a lot of grief. I'm about 90% there. So, let's round up and say score one for compassion.
A few months ago, one of my editors accidentally deleted a document. Recreating it was a hassle, and it was the day before I was leaving for vacation. She was mortified, but it never really occurred to me to be upset. I totally could have done the same thing.
Score two for compassion.
But when it comes to me? To being compassionate and forgiving of ... me?
Well, the score is really, really low there.
I make a living being critical. It's my job to point out flaws and inconsistencies. And really? I'm good at it. I'm good at being a hyper-vigilant freak. I'm blessed to have found a job that takes advantage of my natural gifts.
But when I'm not looking for style guide inconsistencies or misplaced commas, all that critical energy has to go somewhere. And typically, I train it on myself.
My house is a mess. Foxie needs a bath. I need to repair the chip in my windshield. I owe 27 people 27 e-mails. I wore shoes with too high a heel for the pants I had on. The pants were wrinkled. I should lose 10 pounds. Everything I own is covered in dog hair. I have yard work that needs to be done. The right side of my hair is still growing out and looks like a wire-haired terrier. I need to mop my floors.
And there's some broken little synapse in my mind that thinks, "Well, all of these things are well within your reach ... if only you would just try harder."
Yes. Because clearly, I'm not trying hard enough.
Typing this, I see how ridiculous it is. And yet? Yet, I feel guilty for the time I spent cuddling sweet Lil' Frank this weekend. It was great, and then I reached that "What am I doing with my life?" epiphany, and I got up and washed windows.
Yes. I washed windows instead of cuddling with my dog. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I'm not compassionate towards myself. I don't seem to forgive myself for ... gulp ... being human.
Any words of wisdom?