Have you ever tried to save yourself twenty minutes and somehow lost three hours?
Have you ever known exactly what you should do, decided not to do it, and then acted shocked when everything went wrong?
Have you ever looked at a problem and thought, “I’m sure someone can fix that later,” only to discover that “someone” is apparently you—with a credit card?
Because welcome to my life.
I have some great news: I passed my Basic improv class!
I’m genuinely proud of myself. I worked hard, learned a lot, embarrassed myself repeatedly in front of strangers—which, apparently, is called “training”—and I passed.
But here’s the funny part: even though I passed Basic, I’m seriously considering taking another Basic class before moving on to Intermediate.
Why?
Because I’ve heard Intermediate is much harder. The expectations are higher, the instructors are stricter, and I don’t want to move up just because technically I can.
I want to move up because I’m actually ready.
And that realization made me think about something much bigger than improv.
Maybe I need to start living the rest of my life that way too.
Because I have a terrible habit.
I half-ass things.
There. I said it.
Not everything. There are things I work incredibly hard at. But when I’m busy, overwhelmed, tired, or just don’t feel like dealing with something, I have this magical ability to convince myself that the shortcut is actually the smart solution.
My brain becomes a motivational speaker for bad decisions.
“Christy, don’t redo it. It’ll probably be fine.”
“Christy, somebody can fix it.”
“Christy, you’re saving time!”
Meanwhile, Future Christy is standing in the distance screaming:
“YOU DUMB BITCH, TURN AROUND!”
Unfortunately, Present Christy cannot hear her.
Let me give you the latest example.
I’ve been having sound problems with my home recording equipment. I was recording sermons, and when I listened back to one of them, there was noticeable white noise in the background.
Now, there were two options.
Option A: Stop. Figure out what was causing the sound problem. Fix it. Then rerecord the sermon properly.
Option B: Say, “Eh, the editor can probably fix it.”
Guess which one my lazy ass chose?
Of course.
Option B.
Why solve the problem when you can send the problem to someone else and attach an invoice to it?
So I sent the sermon to my editor.
He edited the entire video.
And guess what?
The noise was still there.
It was so bad that I couldn’t use the sermon.
Now I had a professionally edited video that I couldn’t post.
Basically, I paid to have my mistake professionally polished.
You would think I learned my lesson.
You clearly don’t know me.
Because I recorded another sermon.
This time, the white noise wasn’t as bad. It was quieter, but I could still hear it.
And somewhere inside my head, a tiny responsible adult whispered:
“Christy, just rerecord it.”
And I said:
“Shut up. We’re trying shortcuts again.”
But this time I thought I was being smarter.
I specifically asked my editor if the white noise could be removed. I told him that if it couldn’t be fixed, I would just rerecord the sermon.
He told me it was fine.
Fantastic!
My shortcut had been approved!
I practically wanted to throw myself a parade.
Then I listened to the completed edit.
White noise.
The.
Entire.
Time.
I started freaking out.
Now I’ve paid to have TWO videos edited that I can’t use.
Two.
At this point the white noise isn’t even the most annoying sound.
The most annoying sound is my bank account whispering:
“Bitch, I told you.”
And here’s the uncomfortable part.
Yes, I asked if the sound could be fixed. Yes, I was told it could be.
But I also knew I heard the noise before I sent the recording.
I knew there was a problem.
I knew the safest thing was to figure out my equipment and rerecord it.
But I didn’t want to.
I was tired. I was busy. I had already recorded the sermon. I didn’t want to set everything up again and repeat something I’d already done.
So I hoped someone else could rescue me from having to redo my own work.
And my shortcut ended up costing me more time AND more money.
That’s the part that frustrates me.
Because this isn’t the first time I’ve done something like this.
I find loopholes.
I rush.
I tell myself, “Good enough.”
And then I end up doing the same thing twice.
Apparently, I don’t cut corners.
I take the corner, drive completely around the block, get lost, pay for parking, and eventually return to the exact same fucking corner.
Efficiency!
And lately I’ve been getting really angry with myself about it.
Since my husband went to prison, I’ve had to take responsibility for so many things I wasn’t used to handling on my own.
There are days when I feel like responsibilities are falling from the sky and I’m running underneath them with a tiny umbrella.
Work.
Bills.
Equipment.
Scheduling.
Content.
Problems.
Decisions.
Things breaking.
Things needing to be fixed.
People needing answers.
And sometimes I become so overwhelmed that instead of slowing down and doing something properly, I rush because I desperately want one more thing off my plate.
Then rushing creates another problem.
And suddenly the thing I wanted off my plate comes back with side dishes.
That’s when the really ugly thoughts start.
“I’m stupid.”
“Why do I keep doing this?”
“How could I make that decision?”
There have been moments when I’ve genuinely thought, I’ve never felt this stupid in my entire life.
And I hate feeling that way.
But I’m starting to realize something important:
Calling myself stupid isn’t actually teaching me anything.
If beating myself up made me smarter, I’d be a fucking genius by now.
What I need isn’t another insult.
I need a higher standard.
Someone recently gave me advice that really stuck with me: level up your standard.
Because whatever standard you tolerate becomes normal.
If I tell myself, “That’s good enough,” then good enough becomes my standard.
If I tell myself, “I’ll fix it later,” then fixing things twice becomes normal.
If I tell myself, “Hopefully it’ll work,” I’m basically creating a business strategy based on thoughts and prayers.
And listen, I believe in prayer.
But Jesus is probably looking down like:
“I gave you ears. You heard the white noise.”
Maybe excellence isn’t doing everything perfectly.
Maybe excellence is refusing to knowingly hand tomorrow’s version of yourself a problem because today’s version of yourself doesn’t feel like dealing with it.
That’s what I’m trying to learn.
And ironically, passing Basic improv helped me see it.
I technically can move forward.
But I’m choosing to ask a better question:
Am I prepared?
That’s the standard I want to bring into the rest of my life.
Not:
“Can I get away with this?”
Not:
“Will somebody else fix it?”
Not:
“Is this technically good enough?”
But:
“Is this the best I can reasonably do?”
And when the answer is no, I want to stop.
Slow down.
Fix the sound.
Redo the sermon.
Take the class again.
Learn the skill.
Ask the question.
Spend an extra hour today instead of wasting five hours tomorrow.
I’m probably going to mess this up again.
Actually, let’s not say probably.
I know myself.
There will absolutely be another moment when I look at something that needs to be done correctly and my brain says:
“Orrrrrrr… hear me out… shortcut?”
But I’m learning.
Sometimes I learn the first time.
Sometimes I learn the second time.
Sometimes God apparently has to put the lesson on fucking repeat.
And maybe that’s part of growing.
The lesson I’m taking from all of this is that growth isn’t proving that you’re already good enough. Growth is becoming willing to raise your standards when you realize you’re capable of better.
You don’t have to hate yourself for the decisions you made yesterday.
Learn from them.
Take responsibility for them.
And then make tomorrow’s decision differently.
If doing something correctly takes another hour, take the hour.
If you’re not ready for the next level, practice.
If you made a mistake, own it.
And if you hear white noise in your recording…
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T SEND IT TO THE EDITOR.
Redo the damn sermon.
I’m learning that lesson now.
It may have cost me two editing bills, but hopefully I’m finally getting my money’s worth.
Bear with me on this journey.
I have a lot I’m working on. I mess up—a lot. Sometimes it takes me several attempts to learn the same lesson.
But I keep getting back up.
Maybe that’s the real standard I want to live by:
Not perfection.
Not never making stupid decisions.
But refusing to stay the same after they happen.
Remember you are my lovers, whether you love me or love to hate me you are still my lover!
Don’t forget Jesus loves you and so do I!