Good Enough   

I’m used to having to do things myself. People talk about delegating, but I’ve learned the hard way: If you want something done properly, do it yourself. And I like things done properly.

I also like doing well. Really well. Which explains why I come home in a rotten mood on the day I get an 87 on my Geography test, when I was expecting a 95, at least.

“What’s up, Raizy, are you okay?” my mother asks as I walk in the door, slamming it for good measure. “Bad day,” I mutter, then go up to my room. Everything looks just the way it did when I left this morning. Duvet carefully turned back, throw pillows scattered just so, laundry neatly folded and knickknacks perfectly arranged. This is me, I think, then throw myself onto the bed and look angrily at the ceiling. Meanwhile, my brain plays like a broken record, saying: only an 87, only an 87, only an 87…

Other people don’t get this at all, I’ve learned. They laugh at me when I say I wanted a higher mark. They prod me playfully and say things like, “Oooh, Perfect Raizy wants to get 100!” They think it’s a joke, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. Sometimes, it just feels like I live with a monster. A monster called perfectionism.