After my Mission Acceptance review last week I decided I really benefit from the missions that focus on the positive. I thought why not take this to the extreme and try to accept that I am the best. Let me explain, I've never been the best at anything, I am the perpetual underdog - the assistant to the assistant manager, second best friend, almost good enough, gold star for trying though girl. I'm kinda, semi okay with that or at least I pretend to be but I started to think that maybe this idea I have of myself is a lie; maybe the people that appear to be the best are only so because they believe it and if I made my mind up to believe it I might find it becomes the case for me... So this week's mission was to accept I am the best and uncover the super successful me within.
The best host: I had already planned to meet up with a friend and her new baby. I decide I am going to be the best at hosting. People who are good at hosting have warm, homemade snacks available on arrival; I only have cereal and some raisins in my cupboard but I reason I can make flapjacks. Somehow amidst the chaos of preparing a two year old for a day, I manage to get a tray in the oven; an hour later I remove a blackened brick of oats. I text my friend and suggest we meet in a coffee shop.
The best mum: Roscoe and I are having a mother and son day. We just pootle around and see what adventures will find us - sometimes we dance with buskers, sometimes we talk to the squirrels. Today we go to the sand pit. Roscoe sets about doing something very industrious with two buckets and a rake; I sit at the edge with a cold diet coke. I think, my son looks happy. I am the best mother. Another parent is sat in the sand with their child. He keeps shooting me looks, dark looks, looks that say, 'What kind of part time parenting is that?!' I am committed to accepting I am the best so I jump onto the sand and try and play but I don't understand the game and my interference causes Roscoe great offence.
The best blogger: I'm planning a blog post about being the best so obviously I should aim to be the best at blogging. I sit in front of my computer but nothing comes. I paint my nails and then dye my hair. I decide to watch a documentary. I am the best at being overwhelmed by my own insecurities.
The best dressed: I go for something simple, being the best dressed. I consider myself to be reasonably stylish, if I just put in more of an effort I'm sure I can pull this one off. I assess my wardrobe and find it to be ridiculously lacking. I spend money I don't have on ASOS updating it and end up wearing jeans and a T shirt.
The best colleague: I decide I need to go hard or go home, if I'm gonna be the best I want to be the best in an area that will have an impact. I work two days a week in residential childcare - that gives me 48 hours to knock everybody's socks off. I arrive on shift to see I've been teamed up with Amy for the day. Amy is the one, you know the one - she is insanely efficient, she even does the stuff you forgot to do. And did I mention that she always looks amazing - nails did, hair done, eyebrows the fleekiest of the fleek. Amy races around in a sandstorm of productivity and even has time to whip up batch of brownies. I feel very much not the best. Towards the end of the shift there's just a few little chores left and I volunteer to do them. I'm going to be the choriest person you've ever met. I make some calls and then I have to visit a police station to collect some paperwork. The police station is in the middle of nowhere, the sun is beating down for once and by the time I get there I'm sweating like an X Factor auditionee. I explain my errand to a stern faced officer, he looks irritated and then annoyed and cannot assist me. I call Amy and I am at the wrong station - of course I am. I walk to the right station where a friendlier officer explains that he also cannot help me but says he will go investigate,
'Have you committed a crime?' he asks. I resist saying, only the crime of being hilariously inept. As I wait a lad sitting next to me taps his foot arrhythmically. He looks two parts terrified, one part butt clenchingly bored. The policeman returns, tells me I am a failure and defeated I get up to leave. The boy stops me,
'Do you smoke?' he asks. I say no. The officer reminds him smoking is bad for your health. He returns to foot tapping. I start to wander back to work and as I walk past a shop I make a decision. I buy ten cigarettes and a lighter, return to the station and hand them to the lad. He looks bewildered and then relieved and then really, truly grateful. He says thank you and I walk away. I feel a bit bad about taking an estimated 30 minutes from his life but I know what it's like not to be able to get what you think you need. I feel good that I have showed him a bit of kindness because generally when one is foot tapping in a police station, it's not for any good reason and I suspect a bit of kindness is what he needs. And then I realise, I may not be the best at anything but I am the best at being my quirky, spontaneous, haphazard self and that is a very good thing indeed, maybe even the best thing.
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