I always do the best I can. It doesn’t always live up to my momma’s standards, or my boss’s, or heaven forbid, society’s, but I AM doing my best.

My hair is a perfect example. Believe it or not, I color it, I use expensive shampoo and product, and have even had a keratin treatment. But most days it still looks like a mockingbird nest after a tornado. My best is not good enough.

I use an expensive skincare regimen daily, but my skin is still far from perfect. I still get acne, and there’s nothing to be done about these forehead wrinkles. Let’s call them laugh lines. I buy the expensive makeup and apply it carefully. More likely than not, I’m going to look like a raccoon because I have yet to conquer the smoky eye. And I’ll probably forget my lipstick. And although I spend $50 a month on pedicures, my nails are still an uneven, raggety mess. I have accepted the fact that I will never be thin, partly because I’m lazy, and the rest is because I like food better than exercise. I won’t lie and tell you I don’t have time, because I could make time. But I’d rather read and pin recipes for fattening, delicious food. And make lists of places I would like to eat and what I will order once I get there. Short of having Botox and Lipo, this is the best I’m going to look.

I could sweep and mop my bathroom floors everyday but guess what? They still look gross. The linoleum is old, and my husband tracks mud and leaves and yard detritus in every single day, thirty times a day. My best is not good enough.

I had been riding horses for many years before I got a formal lesson. I had a good seat for Western, an excellent one for English, and was about the worst ever saddleseat rider. It did not agree with me. I was used to having my legs tucked up. Now they were all but dangling freely. There was no swell on the saddle before me, there was hardly any saddle at all. There was no gentle curve cupping my rear and giving me just the slightest sense of security, it was flat and I found every inch of it as I slid around, praying for purchase.

I hated riding saddleseat.

But it prepared me for a new kind of riding I did for a few years, almost a decade after I’d gotten rid of my last horse. One of my customers had been encouraging me to come out to his place and meet his horses, check out his arena, try his discipline of equitation. It wasn’t a proposition for romance, nothing like that. He genuinely wanted me to just come ride. So one day, I did. I took my momma just in case he turned out to be a well disguised serial killer. I think I made maybe three circuits around the ring at a walk, trot, canter, respectfully, before he stopped me.

He ran my stirrups up.

I gulped.

He unsnapped my reins.

I wanted to throw up.

He grinned. “Canter, switch diagonals at E.”

I cued, and off we sped. I had no hope of being on the right lead without aid of my reins…or so I thought. My main concern was not crashing into the panels on the far side. I didn’t know this horse, and he didn’t know me. I put faith in his name, which was Bueno. It should have been Hero, because he made me look good that day. After it was over, and I didn’t require an eye patch or crutches, we were leaning up against the stalls. Scott was making conversation with my mom while I fed Bueno and thanked him for not killing me. Scott was saying that he had met a lot of riders in his time and that it was extremely rare they were able to ride as well as they boasted. “As a matter of fact,” he went on. “I’ve only met two. One is your daughter.”

I beamed. I had excelled again. I had made myself proud, even if I didn’t have anybody to impress.

When I was a child, I would memorize mine and everybody else’s lines in the school plays. I always knew what was going on at all times. I did my best and was labeled a nerd. I was rarely reprimanded at school or at home. Even though I had to take remedial math in college, and enlist a tutor for calculus, I was a nerd. Because I was doing my best. And it wasn’t cool to do your best. I knew I was a good kid, and that wasn’t just by comparing myself to other students. I ran with some of the “elite” girls, and all of us knew to keep our legs together and our heads turned when it came to boys and drugs. I was never offered anything stronger than marijuana (which I did not take, believe it or not), and I still couldn’t begin to tell you where to find or buy anything today. I simply do not know how it is done.

I excelled at my first job that I started right out of high school, quickly moving up to a keyholder. At Co-op, I was right at home after I learned about layer pellets. I was sought after at the Co-op. I don’t have to tell y’all-you were the ones seeking me out! Customers appreciated my honesty. When I didn’t know, I would tell them so, then I would try to find out. People trusted me, I had responsibility. I had to get them the right answer, even if they didn’t like it. I had to help them. I had to help their pets, their livestock, their crops. I occasionally even had to help their machinery (heaven help you if you needed more than bolts, plowshares, or rake teeth, though!).  When I moved on to dispatch, the director likened me to a fish in water, although at most times I felt like a fish out of water. I could talk to people in distress, no problem, but when it came to toning out the correct agency or ambulance, I frequently faltered. I once toned out a crew that was already on a call. It was embarrassing, to say the least. I couldn’t claim I didn’t know what I was doing, I’d been given the same training as everyone else. I just forgot what I was doing there for a minute. It had been a busy Saturday, and I hadn’t kept up with my sheet. This mistake wasn’t life threatening, we just moved on past it. And speaking of doing my best, even when everything was perfect, when everybody was doing the best they could, the fastest they could, people still died. We still ran out of ambulances. Ambulances broke down. Ambulances had to be taken out of service for clean up from the previous call. Fire trucks had to refuel at inopportune times. Lifestar wasn’t always availiable, no matter how bad you needed them. Sometimes there was fog, sometimes there were other emergencies that trumped ours. In short, shit happened. But even though it was an emergency situation, we realized certain things would always be out of control and we just worked through it. Even though people would die and families would grieve. These were BIG things. But it was out of our hands. We did the best we could do, and sometimes it wasn’t enough.

When I made my switch from salesman to secretary, I couldn’t have been further from my comfort zone. In my new life, I call 811. It is a world away from 911, before you get all excited and draw conclusions. After the wildfires, I frequently heard an intake of breath after I gave them the county and city. Then a hushed, almost reverent, “Are you alright?” It was so touching. It made me compare again my old life to my new one. Sure, there are fencing emergencies. People pay hard earned money for a quality fence. They expect it completed in a timely fashion. But sometimes shit happens and we can’t help it. At least nobody dies. I still try to do my best, and keep track of everything going on with all of our crews. There are some things I will never understand because I’m not an installer, just like there were things that happened at dispatch that I couldn’t grasp, because I’d never been on scene at a medical call. I told a lady on the phone the other day that she wasn’t ringing any bells, but that didn’t mean anything because I didn’t have a whole lot of bells left to ring. I like to make jokes when the customer seems receptive to them. I think that’s part of the reason I was so popular at Co-op with many clients. I still make mistakes, even when I’m doing my best.

But with my husband, he makes me feel that I am adequate. More than adequate, I am enough. Even when I drive him crazy, I don’t question whether he’s going to leave me. I don’t have to wonder if he still loves me. On the extremely rare occasion he speaks sharply to me, generally when he’s exasperated with whatever he’s working on and has been tormented all day at work, I know that it’s not anything he will lord over me in the coming months and years. It’s over before the hour is out. My husband makes me believe there is hope for nerds.

Making biscuits this morning, I was reminded of all the times I struggled and cussed baking batches before. It took a long time to get them to come out to suit me, even though I was following recipes to the T. It didn’t help that everyone has a different one, and no matter how detailed they were, there was always something, some little specification that was always left out. They’re still not perfect, but they’re better than they used to be, and I no longer agonize over them. Imperfect homemade biscuits are still better than no biscuits at all.

When I am berated, especially for something out of my control, I shrink and wish that I was an oyster or a box turtle. I want to shut out the injustice and drama and retreat. I want to disappear until it’s all over. I want to continue being the golden child, the one who always did my best and was rewarded for it. Nothing comes easy, but it’s hard to be happy and want to excel when what you do is criticized, even though you’re doing your level best. It hurts my feelings and it stays with me pert near forever. I can’t forget. That’s why I’m so selective and a perfectionist in certain criterion of my life. I remember what it was like when I messed up before. I don’t want a repeat performance. I will do nearly anything to avoid it. But when what you told me was right yesterday, and I do that exactly, but today it’s wrong, I find it difficult to roll with the changes. It’s hard to keep up. I won’t agree with something someone says, even if they are an authority figure, unless I have all the information to make an informed decision. I don’t consider myself to have a competitive nature, but I want to do things well. I don’t want to give anyone a reason to get onto me. My nerves can’t take it. I have led a life of relatively low drama, and I intend to keep it that way. That’s why I don’t get out much. I have high expectation of others too, even if it’s just driving down the highway. I expect the speed limit. I expect turn signals. I expect you to stay in your lane and maintain concentration on those around you. When I go out to eat, I expect the wait staff to be friendly. I expect my glass to stay above the 1/4 mark. I expect you to ask if I need anything after my food comes. However, if I see that you are asshole deep in alligators with half the restaurant under your service, I don’t expect it as efficiently. I’m not without a heart! I don’t wish to say I am hard to please, but if you don’t please me, you probably don’t have anything to worry about because I will not initiate interaction.

Guess what happens when you do your best? You still have fender benders and bounced checks and relationships with the wrong people. You still make bad decisions and stay too long and voice unpopular opinions and have awkward silences.
Do your best, and if they don’t appreciate it, find someone who does.