My swimming instructor was a drill sergeant. Literally. Every week myself and nine other elementary kids were dropped off, abandoned by our mothers to Sergeant YES SIR. The lessons were on an army base with a man built like a bulldozer, who I’m convinced didn’t like children. And the pool was cold.
The sergeant didn’t teach. He commanded. When YES SIR barked, we scrambled.
Jump into the water! Climb out! Lie on your stomach! Practice the stroke! Back to the pool! Swim!
He drilled us. He pushed us. We practiced hard. Then harder. Knees knocking and shivering, we lined up to follow the tyrant’s arm motions for the crawl. Forget about easy, hang-on-to-the-edge-of-the-pool-and-kick lessons. We practiced form on rough concrete, then jumped into the freezing water to swim length of the pool over and over because—
The Olympic-size pool didn’t daunt Sergeant YES SIR.
According to YES SIR, breathing with your face planted in the water was easy-peasy. Just rotate your arms; let them pull you through the water. Exhale and inhale. But my windmill arms never synced with the breathing part. Instead, my routine was to: 1. Inhale water 2. Gag and gasp 3. Repeat 4. Dogpaddle with head above water, desperate to live.
The grim task-master had poor eyesight. Blind to tears, he had no heart and ignored whimpers and blubbering. Excuses bounced off his thick hide. Each week we kicked like crazy and flailed our arms, but our best efforts never impressed Sergeant YES SIR.
Is this tyrant in your life?
He might have a different name—Mr. Perfectionism.
Set impossibly high expectations, add a steady stream of negative self-commentary and you’ll splutter to breathe. As a writer, I’ve discovered the dictator of perfectionism lurks within writer’s block. Author Michael Hayatt warns, “Perfectionism is the mother of procrastination.” Over and over, I remind myself to take off the editor’s hat—the voice of perfectionism—when I’m writing a first draft. Revision comes later.
My formidable swimming lessons ended. At the last session, I was so anxious to leave that I grabbed my clothes and went to the car in my wet swimming suit. Goodbye, Sergeant YES SIR. Years later, I competed in sprint triathlons which required swimming a half mile. Crowds cheered no matter the form or speed of the swimmers. I’m sure Sergeant YES SIR was not there because without shame, I did not invite him. No SIR.
Which Sergeant YES SIR stalks you? Hinders your writing?
Send me a note!