Sometimes the pressure to be perfect is too much, and we crack. Not in a "Cuckoo's Nest" way, but more of in a drink a case, boot on the floor, hose the bed kind of way.. Jean Ellen explores how Dartmouth students perfect the art of being imperfect.
Upon hearing "compulsive perfectionism," two thoughts crossed my mind: 1. "Hi, I'm Jean Ellen, and I'm a closet perfectionist" (Hi, Jean Ellen). 2. I have absolutely nothing to say on this topic, for fear of thought number one being more widely discovered.
When I complained that I couldn't get past that 21st century writing block, the blinking cursor, to some close friends they were completely unsympathetic. In fact, they laughed. "Oh, come on, Jean Ellen! This topic is perfect for you! You're [word deleted to protect the chill factor of the columnist]." They clearly did not understand the irony of the situation. Yes, perhaps I have a few perfectionist tendencies. But I sure as hell am not revealing them to the campus en masse (and rendering myself any more imperfect in the process)!
My complete aversion to writing this week's column made me realize an important fact about the current Dartmouth manners and mores: compulsive perfectionists though we may be (don't lie, you know you got into this school somehow), we implicitly understand the campus-wide shunning that would take place should we reveal our more scrupulous tendencies.
Exhibit A: The Pseudo-Rager. An '08 frat brother I know, whose identity shall remain protected, has perfected the art of maintaining fake face time. He goes out, holds a beer, quickly complains that nobody rages anymore, makes appearances in a few sorority gals' photos to commemorate his hardcoreness on Facebook and then sneaks home to the books.
Exhibit B: The Pseudo-Self Call. "Dude, I started writing this article after three games of pong at BG." Why did I go out when I hadn't written my column? Because I just don't want to be lame.
Exhibit C: The Pseudo-Compulsion. As one '08 girl admitted Wednesday night, "Oh, we'll all admit the quirky, weird perfectionist things we do, like organizing our iTunes just so, but it's not like I or anyone else is going to admit to the boring fact of being studious or just caring."
It seems to me, dear Dartmouth, that we do not suffer from compulsive perfectionism so much as a compulsive imperfection. Frat brothers are supposed to pee in the basement. Why? Because they just don't care enough to walk upstairs. Students are supposed to guzzle Red Bull and pull all-nighters. Why? Because they are supposed to be too ragey, or even too disorganized to start their paper the night before.
Now, this isn't to say such actions are complete shams. I'm sure you find it quite liberating to pee in the corner, and I certainly have pulled all-nighters because I legitimately did not have the time to begin beforehand. But the forcefulness with which we claim our imperfections seems to reveal a certain facade. "The lady doth protest too much." Shakespeare has called our bluff -- in our determination to be known as the uninhibited, slightly reckless, proper inheritors of the Animal House legacy, we have given ourselves away.
Our compulsion for apparent carelessness really isn't that surprising when you think about it. It's basically just a group survival strategy. Try this quick mental experiment: you send scouts out into the high schools of America and collect approximately 1,100 of the most driven, passionate, talented 18 year-olds you can get your hands on. Then you drop them in the middle of the woods. What happens? They can either flaunt their successes, their workhorse tendencies, feeding off each others' perfectionism until they claw each other's eyes out (Hi, Harvard), or they can try to chill out and learn to play nice, that way by senior year when someone whispers "compulsive perfectionism," a drunken Neil Willis '08 says, "What the f*ck is that?" Or, in the common refrain of Mike Heslin '08, "Dude. Relax."
The downside to this, of course, is that when someone's editor decides to let the compulsion out of the bag, a certain senior who has learned the ways of her Dartmouth world doesn't know what to say. Ok, I admit it, Dartmouth. In kindergarten, one fateful day when I finally did not get a butterfly sticker on the Good Behavior chart, I cried like the scrawny little girl in knee socks I was. Why? Because I wanted a damn sticker for every day of the year.
Then again, maybe we have let our outward pretense of imperfectionism seep down into our little OCD brains and affect us in positive ways.
Each fall, overly ambitious, anxious freshmen get schooled in the ways of the basement and the herd hang-out mentality of the 'schmob. As Lily Macartney '08 said, "There's nothing more annoying than the eager-beaver '11s in my classes. It's like, Winter term! You are supposed to be out of that phase now!"
To the '11s in Lily's classes, I say, "Dude. Relax." To the '08s, on the other hand, don't think you have me fooled. You may be partyin' like it's senior winter and the end is nigh', but I know some of you want that high honors sticker on your diploma if you can get it. It may not be as pretty as a shiny butterfly sticker, of course. But don't worry, I won't tell your pong partner.
Jean Ellen is a staff writer for The Mirror.
