So aside from Colombia being an entire country full of people I don’t want to sex (who’d have thought that was even possible… 2 million people and not one I’d even consider for a sneaky pash???), it was also the country where I, inexplicably, could not bring myself to finish a single piece of writing. This is possibly because:
One, the tasks on my To Do List in Europe included (and if I’m honest, were usually limited to) such exhausting activities as:
On landing in Colombia, I added what may be considered semi-productive activities such as:
It’s perhaps a shock to my system that I now need to do things, aside from using toilets in a restaurant, I don’t absolutely thoroughly enjoy doing. All these extra tasks have meant I’m able to start blogs but not finish them. I currently have 14 in draft, waiting for an introductory hairstyle, a pair of snazzy shoes at the end, some legs of a cohesive point and a dress of humour to cover the naked emotions.
Secondly, I’ve been battling Perfectionism, which some may consider a symptom of Anxiety. Or perhaps it’s the other way around, who knows. Unlike proper perfectionists however, my perfectionism doesn’t manifest itself in shooting hoops a thousand times a day until you’re Michael Jordan or rewriting an article until its so good it gets picked up by The New York Times.
No, no, my perfectionism consists of me sitting on a couch internally mourning the fact that I’m not, and, if current trends are extrapolated into the foreseeable future, probably never will be, perfect. This thought depresses me so much it’s usually accompanied by a block of chocolate in my hand, Doritos in my bag and Oreos stashed somewhere in a draw (just-in-case-for-later) and a burning desire to watch 10 “Breaking Bad” episodes in a row. I genuinely build stomach ulcers over the fact that Ryan Gosling probably wouldn’t want to marry me even if we met on a Circus Merry-Go-Round in the middle of summer while I was wearing a pretty blue dress. And that I may never have a Wikipedia page written about me for any reason more important than a technologically excited niece in way of an obituary.
There’s not much you can do when this virus of unrealistic expectations about your untapped super human capabilities arise, except ride the tide of self-loathing. And ignore everything you’ve ever written in case your inner Mr Hyde deletes it all in a fit of gut-wrenching fear.
It seems though that if you can resist the kryptonite of mindless activity and get as productive as possible, when the inexplicable stomach lurching and brain freezing passes and you’re trolling through drafts in your ‘blogs’ folder, you may just find a couple of paragraphs you vaguely remember hammering out in the haze of anxiousness which, miraculously, express Exactly What You Wanted to Say.