It was Prom 1994. Rebekah, Amanda, Jess, and I decided that the girls would get ready at Rebekah’s house, but that’s not what I did. I got ready at my house so I could help the others get ready. Somewhere along the way, I decided to be the “low maintenance” one, but it came at a very high cost.
To me, being low maintenance meant the following:
I don’t have needs because I’m tough, or my needs are secondary to the needs of others because I’m a martyr.
I stuff down my true feelings because I value being happy, light, and fun. I’ll never tell you if you hurt my feelings, so I always wear my game face.
My body is here to serve me so I’ll push, push, push. I’ll power through tiredness, hunger, and pain to get the job done.
I don’t give voice to my concerns, ideas or suggestions. I’ll keep trucking along, even if I don’t agree, so that I’m not perceived as a whiner and I’m, instead, admired for my flexibility. I don’t want to rock the boat.
Many of us want to be viewed as your work-horse, get-it-done, don’t-need-a-break, utility players. We don’t believe that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but that it’s a prima donna who’s not being productive.
This low maintenance perspective isn’t right, and it isn’t sustainable—there is a high cost to being low maintenance.
You do have needs, and they aren’t any more or any less valuable than that girl sitting next to you. When we deny them, our needs don’t go away, they just go unmet. Then those unmet needs turn to bitterness and, eventually, resentment. And help never arrives, even when we’re lonely and exhausted, because we never expressed those needs in the first place.