I Love Being Wrong

I love being wrong.

I like being wrong.

I can accept being wrong.

I can admit to being wrong.

Being wrong sucks.

I’m a recovering perfectionist who really only entered treatment for it because it seemed my perfectionism bothered others. But I really like being perfect. I mean, really, what is wrong with perfect?

But this post is about me being wrong, not about me being perfect (though that will be a good one I’m sure).

About how me being wrong is a good thing.

Huh. I got nothing.

No, wait, I do. So, of course, I do not love being wrong. That would be ridiculous.

But I have learned some amazing lessons by being wrong. And I’m almost-close enough-just a bit of a reach more-ready to say- I’m glad I was wrong.

I received tickets to see Cavalia. I’ve wanted to see this show for years. And I was happy for the gift and I really am one of those people that is grateful for the thought. The gesture of the gift is meaningful. My love language is thoughtful gestures.

Please read that  again: I was happy for the gift and I really am one of those people that is grateful for the thought. The gesture of the gift is meaningful.


But the tickets were waaaay in the back and I had to take Little Sir and was certain he would be running up and down the stairs and I wouldn’t see a thing because I would be trying to prevent his death by leaping. And everyone sitting next to us was going to resent him being there. And Little Sir is so fantastic, I hate the idea of taking him some place where he isn’t appreciated.

So, I was prepared for a stressful afternoon and leaving a show early that I could barely see and what I could see I wouldn’t because my toddler would be hurtling himself off the nosebleed section.

But I was still going to go because I was grateful for the gesture of the gift.

Grouchy, but grateful.

Well, I was wrong.

The layout made it such that it really didn’t look like there was a bad seat in the place. And our seats were fine. In fact, our seats were great because the distance allowed Little Sir some perspective so the animals, lights and acrobats weren’t scary. We were seated next to another two year old which worked for all of us. And there was a man on the other side of Little Sir that was just besotted with my guy and helped entertain him when the folks on stage just weren’t cutting it (little known fact: two year olds are brutal critics). Even the way the chairs were designed helped make it easier. And the show was beautiful.

All the grouchiness left. And I was just grateful.

The show was fantastic. Little Sir had a blast. And was a blast. Seeing it with him was a joy.

If all my mistakes turned out this great, being imperfect would be a lot easier.