When You Try Too Hard, It Never Happens

Maybe there's a better word for this: obsession. Some may call it determination. I know myself -- it's obsession.

My mother-in-law once told me, when I carried her only grandchild, that whatever I chose to do, it was always something hard, something big, and eventually, something accomplished to the "Nth" degree. It was her way of telling me she had faith that I would raise her grandchild well.

I lock onto a goal or project and do not let go until it is exactly the way I want it and, if after giving something my all, it still does not measure up to my standards, I do not compromise. I move on. (With one exception -- my family. They all are a work-in-progress.)

Case in point: growing roses.

Way back when, I allowed my job as an advertising executive for a national housewares corporation to consume me. I woke up thinking about dishes. I went to bed thinking about dishes. I probably made love thinking about dishes. (Sorry, honey.)

Then one day, my ever-sensible husband said, "I think you need a hobby."

So, I decided to grow roses. Not just any kind of roses -- prize-winning roses. I planted and fertilized and pruned and picked off dead leaves and shriveled buds, annihilated any pest that dared suck the juice from my beautiful blooms, until the bushes produced fist-sized, fragrant flowers.

"You sure do pick the hardest things," my husband said.

Fast forward twenty years to tap dancing.

In my third month of lessons, I am technically proficient with the steps we have learned so far. I remember about 99% of the routine, 99% of the time.

Still, it all feels too mechanical.

Because I enrolled in two classes a week, and not the standard once a week, I had set myself up for having to learn not one, but two dances. My Wednesday night class members all began at the same time, in January. We're all learning the same dance. But my Thursday morning class members began in September, which meant they had a three-month jump on me, and a different dance, well rehearsed. Rather than stand by the sidelines while my Thursday morning tappers joyfully slapped, shuffled, and Irish-stepped across the floor, I bought the instructor's DVD, where the dance was broken down, step by step.

I practiced at home at least an hour a day, five days a week, until I learned the combination.

The greatest reward was to be able to keep up with my tappers when it came time to rehearse the routine.

With all this effort, you would think I float along that floor effortlessly. Not so. It's more like -- can you "hear" me count every step? Did you see me catch up to the rest when I missed that shuffle?  Is my big toe still rigid?  (I joked one day that my big toe thinks it's on Viagra.)

"You're trying too hard," my ever-patient instructor said. "You know how it is when you try. It never happens."

And to that she added (you already guessed it, didn't you?), "Relax."

Reference post Number One, April 7.