Finicky

I had an interesting conversation with my husband last night and discovered I am as finicky as a cat with a bowl of discount food.

I was explaining how I was having a hard time believing folks when they told me I was good at certain things. He said “Well you’ve been that way for the last twenty years.” I told him that since I had not mastered some of the skills, it would be presumptuous of me to say I was “good at something”.

He said it would be presumptuous for me to say I was good at surgery or tort reform since I didn’t know anything about them, but it’s not presumptuous to say I was good at things for which I had external, objective evidence confirming my skill.

Score one for the better half.

With as much grace as I could muster I said “Ok” and shut up. Because he was right. My habit is to pick over praise like a buffet and only take the bits that interest me. Or maybe nothing at all. Its unseemly to appear hungry all the time. And of course I’m just finicky.

Once again I am grateful my daughter has two parents. In this regard she models her father who has a healthy sense of what he does well and has no problem accepting praise and rewards. I am delighted that she owns her triumphs and doesn’t hang onto her flaws in a way that defines her. Despite anything her father or I do.

Such a funny push/pull that skills and flaws play in our lives. And if we learn to be finicky, we narrow our field even more. What happens if I begin to accept that I am good at something that I love doing? Well then I lose all my excuses for not doing it of course.

I have decided that even as I am unable to enjoy the full buffet at the moment, I will stop trying to pretend that I’m not hungry. It’s a start.

One response to “Finicky

  1. A very wise coach recently reminded me that there is no such thing as 'mastery'. That, in fact, even the great masters see themselves as a work in progress as they offer their gifts to the world. You are such an fascinating work in progress, and I hope you'll offer yourself to the world.

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