Lowering The Superwoman Bar

My Faithful Followers,

You may have noticed you haven’t heard from me in a while. Thing is, I got this killer cold. Or, should I say, colds.

You know when you’ve reached that point in a cold where you’re so grateful you’re finally getting better after days of hacking up God-knows-what from the bowels of your esophagus (Little Man calls them loogies) and rubbing your nose raw from blowing it 500 times every hour?

When you’re finally feeling a glimmer of good humor returning to your cranky self and you dare to think, “Hey, this shitty cold just might be on its way out!” And you actually get down on your knees to thank God, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha and the makers of Musinex because you’re so beside yourself that this runny nose/hacking cough/drowning in your own mucous state of affairs is starting to subside?

And then, if like me, you’re an ardent practitioner of canceling out positive thoughts with negative ones, you remember back to that time ten years ago. A time that’s etched permanently in your brain because it was so cruel and traumatizing.

When.

After finally making it through one cold.

You were bitch slapped with another.

Let me introduce you to cold #2. The ten-ton weight strapped to your forehead, oxygen-depriving, sinus infection version. Because certainly the Universe, in its confounding wisdom, must have decreed, “If she was up to the challenge of cold # 1, let’s send another her way. After all, it’s been years since she got a two-stager. It’s time for another life-lesson.”

So, as I slogged through my second cold with the sound of ocean waves crashing and popping in my ears, dizzy from lack of oxygen because my nasal passages were so blocked they were no longer taking in air, I got to thinking. Just keeping up with the day-to-day when I’m healthy is challenging enough. But doing it sick? I was so on the verge of a break-down that a padded hospital room was looking like a spa get-away to me.

“Universe,” I pleaded nasally, “Please. What are you trying to tell me? To re-evaluate the responsibilities I constantly heap on my plate? The self-induced pressure to make sure Big Man and Little Man eat right, take their vitamins, stay on top of their school work, get enough fresh air and sunshine, aren’t brain-dead from endless amounts of TV, computer and video games, say no to drugs, read the Classics in their free time and get to bed at a reasonable hour?

My Sisyphean attempt to get the clutter cleared, the laundry done, the dog walked, the plastic recycled, the oil changed, the lawn weeded, the garden watered?

My inability to say no to just one more volunteer project?

The demands I put on myself to have a successful career, earn more money and at the same time, write the great American novel.

The time I don’t have for PB?

Is that what you want me to look at, Universe? Because if it is, you’re right! Cold or no cold. This is killing me!”

Then, in its infinite wisdom, the Universe had one more thing in store to make sure I was really paying attention. It was at a “welcome to our nationally-ranked high school, here’s what’s expected of your child now that he's a freshman” meeting.

I swear to you, this was supposed to be a presentation about high school. Except, most of the evening was spent talking about college. “Highly competitive” colleges to be exact. And the golden ticket into a “highly competitive” college? A very shiny HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT.

We parents were told that, in addition to stellar grades, the road to such colleges was paved with honors and advanced placement classes. And soon, our children would have the option of taking these courses.

As a wave of fear and confusion broke over the room, one parent raised a hand in an effort to try to wrap her head around the all-mighty HIGH SCHOOL TRANSCRIPT. “In the long run, is it better to get an ‘A’ in a regular English class or a 'B' in an honors English class?” she ventured.

The counselor’s response caused me to dig frantically in my purse for a cough drop. Because if I didn’t get one in my mouth immediately, I was going to choke. Not on a loogie. On her answer.

“What’s best," she paused for dramatic effect and smiled ever so sweetly, "Is to get an ‘A’ (drum roll, please) in an honors class.”

Holy shit.

Was I hearing that right? Does that mean if Big Man chooses to take an honors class, one that challenges his intellect above and beyond a "regular" class, causes him to analyze complex concepts and do extra reading and research, if he gets a 'B', as far as "highly competitive colleges" are concerned, that's NOT GOOD ENOUGH??!!!

And mind you, this (spat!) 'B' (spat, spat!), this inferior specimen of a grade, is coming from a high school that's been written up as one of the top 100 in the country. I'm talking the entire freaking U.S.A.!

Then and there I knew. At that parent's meeting it became crystal clear. If it isn't good enough for a fourteen-year-old kid (fourteen!!!) to get a 'B' in an honors class, then I (yes, this is also about me after all) was screwed.

Because whether you're fourteen or forty-something, the "what it takes to 'achieve' in life" bar is set so ridiculously heavenward, I might as well be attempting to high-jump the Empire State building. Those endless demands and responsibilities I incessantly harangue myself with had grown into insurmountable skyscrapers.

And with this realization, I felt the pressure to be super-woman loosen. My compulsive need to bang my head against the cinder block cell of my unrealistic expectations was gone! Even with my stuffy nose, I could breath again!

So, with a bow to the Universe, here's what I’ve decided. Being "good enough" is alright by me. It may not get Big Man into a "highly competitive college." And it may not cause me to get fewer colds. But at least when I do get one, it won't be the end of my world. I'll make myself a cup of tea with lemon and honey, get comfy on the couch and maybe, just maybe, do something completely unheard of. Like take the day off.