Don’t always trust the first story you tell yourself.

Over a cup of coffee, a friend and I were catching up about our holidays. We talked about the food we ate, the family we saw, the shows we streamed. You know, the light stuff. Hers was perfection: the perfect meal, the perfect family, the amazing grandkids. Mine was extremely enjoyable but messy in a  fractured way due to geography, work requirements and family strife, hardly anything but perfect. Yet, we saw all the kids, their spouses and children. We traveled, stayed in great cities, neighborhoods and hotels. We ate wonderful food. We laughed, alot. We had a great time. Our holidays were not perfect, but they were memorable in the best of ways.

I'll never forget a catering event back in the day of early “restaurant Martha”. The house was perfect, the kitchen even more so. French copper everywhere, multiple sinks and tons of prep space. A cooktop home - what kitchen dreams are made of. “Make yourselves at home,” the hostess said. “Everything you need is in those cabinets and these drawers.” So, I opened one of the doors she pointed to. Suddenly, perfection vanished...

Stacks of mismatched plates, containers, vases - you name it - heaped on top of each other spilled out, literally. The kitchen was perfect alright - a perfect metaphor as to how very deceptive the ideals of perfectionism can be.  

100 years ago in Paris, my husband and I went to a three star restaurant. Now this was pre-internet, pre-Instagram, pre- “top restaurants in x city” list days. We had actually read about this restaurant in GOURMET, which was our travel and food bible. We expected perfection. What we got was human. One too many interruptions, a single forgotten fork, pommes that needed just a touch more salt for my taste. 

Another meal, the following day at a much less lofty restaurant, was where we experienced perfection. A preference for bistro over high-brow could explain our two vastly different experiences. Or,  did it have more to do with our expectations?

Last month we went to the Rose Bowl to cheer the Hoosiers on. The forecast was dismal: rain, a rarity in LA. We were traveling with someone who required a walker and wheelchair. Having never been to the stadium, we had no idea how to navigate. A friend with experience with both attending the Rose Bowl and traveling with someone who was wheelchair bound, advised us not to go; parking, she warned, is dreadful, the walk is far and ease of access is nearly impossible. Between the forecast of rain and her admonitions, we considered selling our tickets and watching the game from our hotel rooms.

Our expectations prepared us for the worst: a more than soggy trek to our seats, drying towels and clear rain ponchos at hand. We told each other, we can always leave early. 

Our reality was something entirely different. No rain. A driver who knew the area well and found a drop off location in a designated area less than a three minute walk to our gate. Seats on the fifty yard line. The best seatmates; strangers at first but yep, we are now text pals. A flyover for the ages. And, a Hoosier win. It was one of the best experiences we've had in a while and one I've reflected on daily since experiencing. 

Failed expectations work in strange ways. Sometimes disappointment reveals what’s human; sometimes expectations can be surprisingly improved on; sometimes they are laser-like precise, other times they are blunt instruments at best. Regardless, it’s what’s behind the doors that matter, and not the story we tell ourselves in advance. 

MSH