On being average.

Last night, Adam and I were dissecting this quiz we took about our relationship. You know, one of those "There are no wrong answers, so don't worry! We aren't judging you!" things which to me means "The right answer is just creatively hidden within our scoring chart so goooood luck."

I don't know if you're aware but let me just say that I.do.not.fail.quizzes (except horrible Mr. Vincent's trigonometry in eleventh grade...and no, I am SO NOT OVER IT...and further, I DO NOT NEED IT IN MY EVERYDAY LIFE SO THERE!).

Ahem.

Anyway, we're looking over our results and right there on the first page is a little summary of us as a couple. And out of four possibilities, we're given this perfectly acceptable label--which isn't bad per se--but in my crazy, perfectionist brain just didn't seem as good as another label and just seemed rather, well, ordinary on paper.

And I'm pointing it out to Adam like See?! Are you seeing this? Can you believe that WE ARE NOT COMPLETELY PERFECT IN EVERY WAY?! IS THIS BECAUSE YOU JUST DISCOVERED I SQUEEZE MY TOOTHPASTE FROM THE MIDDLE?!?!?!?!

Adam, being the tooootally emotional basketcase that he is these days (oh wait...) takes a couple minutes, reads it over and says ever-so-calmly, "Sara, this isn't saying anything bad. And for that matter, everything it says we need to work on, well, we actually DO need to work on. And that's okay."

And he was right.

But for some reason, it is hardwired in my brain to fight against "average". And instead, demand "perfection."

Average job? I should work harder. Average day? What a waste. Average relationship? We can do better.

Average is failing and I.do.not.fail.

Except that I do fail. Because I am human.

And I am average. In so many ways. (and in some ways, far less than average as anyone who has seen me on the basketball court can attest)

And it's this peculiar tug-of-war--this desire to be better than average. In every way. Because my pride won't let me be anything less. Because complacency is a death sentence. Because I need to believe that I am more than that.

And yet...in so many ways, the desire to be Prototypical Average. Because it looks so appealing sometimes--the house. The family. The dog. The career. The minivan full of soccer balls and Squeeze-Its. And I think to myself yeah...I want that.

It's a conundrum that leaves me restless when I'm stable and swirling when I'm not.

It's a fear that I'll always be living in discontent.

It's a constant searching, a constant second-guessing, a constant need to feel affirmed in exactly who I am right then.

Even when I'm not exactly sure myself.