Roommate and I went to see Mary Poppins, the musical, at the Ahmanson last night. We went with his friend and her two fairy-tale children, who watched with dropped jaws as Bert danced about the proscenium, and Mary flew into the audience on her umbrella.
There were many differences from the 1964 film; some fun (an expanded Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious number), some disturbing (the lack of a story arc for Mother/Mrs. Banks, and the deletion of the Sister Suffragette song, plus a scene where the toys come to life and there's a life-sized clown — during which I relaxed my eyes and blurred my vision as if I were staring at a poster with a hidden image).
There was a new song, to which the perfectionist in me wanted to throw over my seatmates and dance on to the stage: "I'm practically perrrrrfect, in every way," Mary Poppins articulated as she pulled lamps and clocks from her magic bag.
My therapist, however, begs to differ. Upon finishing my first visit today with my new — advisor/listener/counselor — and answering such yes|no questions such as "do you identify with: perfectionism? a sense of responsibility?" she advised I read The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown. I proudly announced, "Done!" That's how practically perfect I aim to be. I'd already read the perfectionism book before it was even suggested.
"The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself." ~Anna Quindlen
Apparently, Mary and I still have a lot of work to do.
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