I’m over it
A million years ago in the days of resumes and job interviews, I considered being detail-oriented my biggest strength.
Analyzing every angle, stripping the layers of a project bare, problem solving any potential flaw—that’s how I roll even now, long after the career ended.
In the next chapter of my working life—family caregiver, petsitter, writer—attention to detail is still critical, but more often, crippling. The octopus tentacles of overthought options often overwhelm. Funding for my dad’s lifespan. A new furnace for island house. Multiple revisions to a manuscript. Another road trip back East.
Overthinking: I suppose it lies somewhere between impulsive and ponderous on the life balance chart. And, yeah, I suck at moderation.
If overthinking is the spawn of perfectionism, it should come as no surprise that I’m a recovering perfectionist. In sobriety, I’ve gradually learned to accept progress over perfection—which, as Lyle McKeany writes, is easier said than done. And if it’s true that the devil’s in the details, I can either drive myself mad with them or chill.
So. Why not take a vacation from overthinking, both literally and figuratively? As I press the “book tickets” button on my screen—my spontaneous experiment in underthinking a Mexican vacation—I’m a bit giddy. Did I spend days trying to coordinate frequent flyer miles and seating arrangements? No. Did I obsess over the weather forecast and repack my suitcase six times? No. Did I research the best restaurants and plan snorkeling and kayaking adventures? Again, no. I honestly have no idea where to find the freshest yellowfin tuna, if there’s a beach near the hotel or the peso-dollar conversion rate.
Overthinking. Just for today, I’m over it.