Okay, I’m a senior citizen now and I’m mature enough to admit to my faults. My jaws crack noisily when I eat apples and I snarf down popcorn too quickly. I bore my family by repeating jokes and personal anecdotes and my Dutch stubbornness and German temper sometimes get in the way of human harmony. I preach “sermons” worthy of Billy Sunday when I get disgusted with someone or something and I have been known to have been too frugal.

This list, unfortunately, goes on. The stain of original sin did not pass me by.

One fault I have difficulty admitting, however, is the fault of perfectionism. On occasions I’ve been told I’m a pain-in-the-(rear) perfectionist. The truth is, I am a perfectionist; but I don’t always see it as a fault.

Back when I was still gainfully employed I took some ribbing for having spent a day of vacation cleaning up and reorganizing my home office. What kind of a weirdo, after all, would use vacation time for that?

Simple answer: a perfectionist.

I’m more relaxed these days but I still like things neat, clean and orderly.

This perfectionism thing is genetic and sprouts frequently on the Huisman family tree. My siblings display varying degrees of perfectionism as does my son. It is our Great Uncle George, however, who set the standard for our family. George died when I was very young so I never had an opportunity to know him. Family lore recalls him as the perfect perfectionist.

As a teenager working for farmers in the Kamrar community in central Iowa, older farmers regaled me with stories of Great Uncle George and his big brother, Klaas. Klaas was remembered for his massive size and strength and George was remembered for his perfectionism. George’s barn, one fellow told me, was cleaner than many homes.

I’ll never be as good at this perfectionism thing as Uncle George but I am doing my part to honor his memory. That means I will continue to get edgy when the stacks of paper get too deep in my office. It means I’ll wash my car more often than most folks because I believe a clean vehicle drives and runs better than a dirty one. It means I’ll continue to use a detail brush when I dust the dash of my car because a dust cloth doesn’t sufficiently clean the air conditioner vents and operational controls.

It also means I will continue to observe punctuality as one of the Ten Commandments. It means I’ll work an extra half hour to do something just right.

It means that in the eyes of many I will be viewed as a pain who should learn to relax and enjoy life a little more. Good enough, after all, is good enough.

Well, good enough is good enough until the non-perfectionists are being served. Even slobs demand perfection from the cockpit when they fly. You don’t hear anyone tell the pilot, “Don’t get all uptight, Captain, if a red-light flashes or a buzzer sounds. Good enough is good enough for me.”

When someone is about to undergo surgery, you don’t hear them tell the surgeon, “Now, Doc, don’t work up a sweat. You just open me up and fiddle around in there until you get it fixed. And, hey, if you don’t get all the sponges out, don’t worry; be happy!”

You can bet they want perfection from their auto mechanic. You won’t hear them say, “Mr. Goodpliers, those brakes don’t work too well. If you can make them stop the car better, that would be great. Otherwise, just check the air in the tires and that’ll be good enough for me.”

And you know they’ll demand perfection from the 16-year-old at the burger joint counter. Don’t expect anyone to say, “This isn’t what I ordered and you shorted me 33 cents in change … but what the heck, have a nice day!”

Age, marriage and experience have toned down my perfectionism traits. I was getting tired of being a pain-in-the-rear perfectionist. Now I’m just a general pain. I finally learned that perfection is the enemy of excellence.

The late football coach, Vince Lombardi, once said it this way: “Perfection is not attainable, but if we chase perfection we can catch excellence.”

Arvid Huisman can be contacted at huismaniowa@gmail.com. ©2025 by Huisman Communications.