He asked, “Do you want eggs for breakfast?” “Yes,” I replied, “Over easy, please.” A snarky response ensued, “You don’t want scrambled?” To that, I did not acknowledge aloud. He knows I don’t like my eggs messy. I like them over easy. The yolk separate from the white; just the way I eat them. First the white, all the way around, careful not to puncture the yolk until the white is completely gone.
In fact, as I kid, I ate everything separate on the plate, as if there were invisible dividers. First the vegetable. Then the starch. Finally, the meat. If the meat was juicy, I’d put my knife under the part of the plate without the meat, so its juice didn’t bleed into the other food. Sometimes, I wiped my fork between eating one kind of food before moving onto the next. I didn’t like things messy, then, either.
It occurred to me that I don’t like anything messy. Not my eggs, not various foods on a plate, not friendships. I segregate parts of myself from others. For example, I share one side of myself with one friend and a completely different side to another. I’m not sure how or why I learned to separate facets of my life or myself.
I read an article earlier written by Anne Lamott on creativity and perfection. According to Lamott, the death of creativity is in striving for perfection. Maybe that’s the problem.
“On second thought,” I added, “Scramble my eggs. Make them messy.”