Following my niece's bas mitzvah, I crawled, exhausted and danced-out, into the back seat. My other two nieces (cousins to the birthday girl) were coming home with my folks and me.
It's not a far drive; 15 to 20 minutes, tops. But as soon as the music chimed on with the start of the car, the niece at my side began to squirm, twisting around and rummaging through the pile of CDs in the back window. Her elbows, of course, managed to dig its way into my liver.
"Sit back," I snapped. I was tired, sweaty, ate too much, and I had cut my foot.
"But I don't like the music that's on," she grumbled sullenly.
"It's a FIFTEEN MINUTE DRIVE!" I roared.
"But I don't liiiiiike it," she continued to whine.
"But I don't liiiiiike it," she continued to whine.
"Mammelah," Ma said sharply from the driver's seat, "life isn't perfect. It's 'just' pretty good."
My niece fell into petulant silence, but a few minutes later she was cheerfully singing along to the next song. All she had to do was sit still for a little bit.
My niece fell into petulant silence, but a few minutes later she was cheerfully singing along to the next song. All she had to do was sit still for a little bit.
A week later (I've had this post saved a wee bit too long) Rabbi Pruzansky echoed that statement.
It's so sad to see perfectionists mired in the web of their own making. Nothing ever goes well; it could always have gone better. Slight, meaningless details that did not go smoothly yet did not alter the grand effect are focused and picked at.
Oh dear, I feel Frozen coming on. "Let it go, let it goooooooo . . ."
Oh dear, I feel Frozen coming on. "Let it go, let it goooooooo . . ."
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