50 Years Of Nerfect

I made it to the big 5-0, and after work tonight, I will mark the occasion at my local tattoo parlor. I have known for maybe six months what I want to get for a tattoo, but I had not decided where to put it. I think I'm going to have two words put across my chest so that I can see them (backwards) in the mirror every morning before I start my day. They're two words that I have needed to know my whole life, but I just saw them a few years ago when I started my scorekeeping job with Major League Baseball. And they're two words that...aren't real words.

"Pobody's Nerfect."

MLB sends weekly emails to those of us in data operations, and there's a section of the email pertaining to mistakes that we as a group are making too often that need to be focused on and cleaned up. They call that section "Pobody's Nerfect" because they always start the section by praising the good work overall that we're doing and reminding us that we all make mistakes from time to time and that the criticism they're about to give is not a plea for perfection because that's not realistic. I really appreciate that tone. It's what I've always needed to realize about this thing called life, but didn't want to see: I can't be perfect. No one can. As hard as I try, I cannot be flawless at any of my sports side hustles or even at my data entry day job, where I really do get upset if I get an error. I've always felt that giving up the pursuit of perfection meant that I was a failure and I didn't want to be the greatest at whatever I did. That was never true. Once I saw that phrase in the MLB emails, it started to dawn on me that perfection is not attainable, and as much as I tried, I never got there, so maybe stop expecting that out of myself. And the result of that mind shift is I've enjoyed my gigs much more, because the stress of being perfect is lessened, not gone, but I don't fret about mistakes as much as I used to. Just yesterday I was working maybe the dreamiest of dream gigs, entering the plays of an NFL game live from TV in the comfort of my bedroom. A fourth down play happened where the refs ruled a completed catch at the sideline, then like twenty seconds later they decided it was actually an incomplete pass as the receiver didn't get the second foot down inbounds. I couldn't go back easily and change the play because it was a fourth down play and the resulting change of possession made it impossible to delete and re-enter, and my support person had to call me and walk me through how to fix it. Normally I would have internalized the "mistake" of not waiting until I was 100% sure that the play was over and I could enter it, but #1, I'm not perfect, pobody's nerfect, and #2, who would have scored that play differently under the circumstances? When the ref runs in and indicates good catch, then the players start lining up for the next play, why would I think anything other than "good catch"? I refused to let that play ruin my mood for the rest of the game, and I might still get charged with an error by the data company, and it's OK. I did the absolute best I could given the situation, and I don't think I could have done it differently because if I wait too long on a play thinking it might get changed and it doesn't, now the next play is being run and I'm behind because I'm still trying to put in the prior play that I thought might get reviewed. In this gig, at baseball, at my day job, outside work, I just breathe and do the best I can. It's so much less stressful than always trying to be perfect. And there are so many things I didn't attempt over the years because I didn't think I would be perfect so I didn't even try. But those opportunities are gone. All I can do going forward for the next fifty years is do my best and keep it moving. It won't be perfect, but that's fine. Pobody's nerfect.

Not A Total Loss

The Toyota Camry that I fretted over buying more than four years ago, and in which I invested four new tires and a new battery last year, and a full tank of gas the day before that cocksucker hit me, is no more. The body shop found more than $15,000 worth of damage once they disassembled it, most of which was from the crash but some of which may have been there through incidents prior. Whatever the origin, the damage was too much for my insurance company to bear, and they declared it a total, which means they are paying off the balance of what I owe, giving me the rest of the current value of the car, and destroying it. Because one kid who shouldn't be driving hit me so softly that my air bags didn't even deploy, my first car is dead. I'm not happy, to say the least.

I got a paper clip out of the car when I cleaned it out today. That was big. Let me explain. My wonderful wife bought me a tablet for Christmas, but the first instructions when I opened it was to install a memory card which was not included. Since when do computers not have everything you need right out of the box? So I went on the Walmart website and set up a grocery order, adding in a MicroSD memory card, which they informed me only after I picked up the order would be delivered to my house separately. A few days later, there it was. New problem: I didn't know how to open the slot on the tablet to insert said card. Researching the dilemma, two options became clear: Buy some tool that is used to open these types of slots, or use a paper clip and hope for the best. Walmart didn't seem to have this tool, so instead of looking at other purchasing options, I mentally settled for the paper clip option, but with all of our office utensils, we didn't have any paper clips. There's a million of 'em at my job, but I kept forgetting to steal one. I got the call that my car was declared a total and that I need to get to the repair shop to clean out my belongings. So I did just that, and searching under my seats for anything of value, there it was: a single paper clip. Guess it was meant to be. And yes, it did the trick. One last gift from my ride to me before it's crushed. My car deserved better.