For far too long I’ve played into the image and idea that I’m a high maintenance person. It goes with the diva-like territory in which I’ve mostly pretended to live, but isn’t an accurate representation of truth. Take the pictured shirt, for example. It’s from Wal-Mart. I got it at half price a few months ago, cut the sleeves off for comfort, and it’s quickly become my new favorite shirt for bedtime. A high-maintenance person doesn’t find such comforts so easily. But my problem with that perceived designation runs deeper, because for me being high-maintenance isn’t about being a perfectionist or being very particular about how things are done.
A truly high-maintenance person is someone who is impossible to please, either from impossible demands, or unclear requests. A high-maintenance person will answer a question like, ‘What do you want for dinner?’ with, ‘Oh, I don’t know, whatever you want is fine.’ Then when they get a burger and fries, lament and complain that it’s not a steak and twice-baked potato. That’s not me.
I’ve always made it exactly known what I want and how I want it. Hell, I’ve established registries for birthdays and Christmas to eliminate guesswork. I’m brazenly clear about what I like and enjoy, and unabashedly lean into asking for it. People have mistaken this for being high-maintenance, when it’s very much the opposite. The blueprint is there, the map is laid out, and all anyone has to do is follow the simple instructions – often accompanied with an explanatory blog post such as this.
It doesn’t get any easier.
When they go high, I go low.
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