Underachieving Perfectionist

I had come to a time in my life wherein I felt a certain compulsion to define who I am. My need to fit into a certain category was not one that sprang up over night. I have been, for too long, wrestling with the notion that there is a place for me. A set, group, or clique that would embrace me as I am. To seek acceptance based on race or socio-economic background was not enough. It was the cheap way out. Hopping on the bandwagon of the latest trend seemed not nearly sufficient to satiate my appetite for approval. I’ve asked myself the same questions repeatedly; “who am I, what am I, why am I?” It has been those queries that have haunted me eternally. But, as I meandered through my work day today it became clear. A definition that I had toyed with for years Underachieving Perfectionist is to be my new moniker. I had been manipulating the phrase for a while and never could pull anything from it. Taking it out for a spin, running it up the ole flagpole, turning it inside out and outside in, popping its clutch, pumping its brakes and for as much as it rang true I got nothing from this statement. Until today as I meandered my way through the work day. It struck me as if it were the right hand of God slapping me back into consciousness. I am an Underachieving Perfectionist and maybe one day I can tell you exactly what that is.