When I was in school, I was an average student. B’s and C’s showed up on my transcript more often than the increasingly-elusive A. I rarely cared about my grade point average. I knew my grades didn’t reflect my actual intelligence and I knew enough about the great minds of history to know that my academic performance didn’t necessarily translate to personal success. Anyone who knew me as a student would probably chuckle if I suggested I’m a bit of a perfectionist. “You?” they would scoff, “A perfectionist? That test you just took has a backside, genius.” Except my repetitive thought patterns and ability to over-analyze my life result in a perfectionist-like personality. It’s pretty buried. My perfectionism rarely is allowed to frolic in the sunlight with the other neighborhood kids. But it’s there, festering in the basement like pods of mold. And just like mold, it silently sneaks into whatever free space it can. I rarely feel satisfied with a piece of my own writing. I rarely feel proud of a job I’ve completed. And …