Tom, a Chief Technology Officer with whom I just scheduled a meeting for tomorrow afternoon, texts me.

“Umm, Michael? We’re meeting at 4 PM, right? I ask because the meeting invite you sent is for 6 PM. And that’s too late for me.”

I check my calendar, which says yes, the meeting is at 4 PM. I start to text Tom back confirming this. Then, I stop.

Oh.

Right.

I’m on the West Coast and so in the Pacific Time Zone today. Not my usual Central Time Zone. Tom is in Pennsylvania—Eastern Time Zone. When I travel, I leave my laptop on Central regardless of where I actually am. So, I made the appointment for 3 PM Central, which is 4 PM Eastern.

Oh.

Right.

But I didn’t bring my laptop on this trip. So, I’m doing everything on my phone. Which does automatically update itself to the local time zone. 3 PM Pacific is 6 PM Eastern. Oops.

I quickly update the meeting invite, then text Tom. “Oops. Messed up the time zone math. Update with the correct time should be in your inbox. Apologies! Thanks for letting me know.”

“Again?” my Perfection Monster asks caustically.

Over the last few weeks, I have made similar time zone errors with eight other people. Not all because I was traveling. One time, I thought I had switched the invite to their time zone, but I hadn’t. Another time, I had switched the invite to their time zone, but after I set the time, and my calendar “helpfully” automatically adjusted the time I had selected to reflect the corresponding time in the new time zone, and I hadn’t noticed. Yet another time, I thought the person was in Pacific Time Zone, but they were actually in Mountain. And so on.

“You are wreaking so much havoc and causing so much anxiety. These people are never going to want to talk with you now. They’ll tell everyone they know you are an untrustworthy, worthless person,” my Perfection Monster yells at me.

“I am such a worthless person,” I think.

“You can’t even set up a meeting correctly!” my Perfection Monster ensures I know.

“Whatever made me suppose I could run a business?” I ask myself.

Then, my body speaks up. “Well, we’ve been around hordes of people nonstop for the last eight hours. We’re pretty wiped out.”

Yes, that’s true. Going for a long walk at lunch helped, yet it wasn’t nearly enough.

“You can’t even take care of yourself,” my Perfection Monster jeers.

I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, then let it go. I settle myself in my chair, feeling it press against my butt and back and the floor press against my feet. Then, I open my backpack, take out my Perfection Monster, and give it a great big hug.

I used to fight back at my Perfection Monster. Attack it with proof that what it was telling me was false. Try to force it into submission.

That only ever seemed to make it stronger.

What has helped more than anything else has been making friends with it. Showering it with appreciation. Offering it a seat on my Council of Counsel, alongside my heart, mind, body, spirit, and intuition.

Also, personifying it.

This patchwork voodoo zombie plush wolf may seem horrifying to you. It sure does to some of my friends.

To me, though, it’s adorable. I giggle every time I see it.

I have a really hard time being scared while I’m giggling.

I have not always been able to giggle in the presence of my Perfection Monster. Two ideas started me along that journey: one, that my Perfection Monster only ever wants me to be successful and safe; two, that I can love and appreciate my Perfection Monster without agreeing with a word it says.

These helped me reframe my Perfection Monster from a tyrant to a watchdog, from a bully to a friend.

If you are uncertain how to start making friends with your Perfection Monster, consider inviting it into a conversation. You might even invite it to tea, or pie, or to help you transplant a favorite plant. Whatever feels safe and friendly.

When it feels right, tell it things you appreciate about it. Its forthrightness in helping you avoid pitfalls, for example. The clever phrasings it uses, maybe. The volume at which it manages to project its opinions, perhaps. You might use this format: “Perfection Monster, I appreciate you for <thing>.”

Your Perfection Monster probably isn’t used to being listened to. So, give it that gift. Ask it what it would like to tell you. Give it plenty of time to respond. And listen. Again and again and again.

Over time, you may find your Perfection Monster becoming less of a bully and more of a friend.

And if you decide to personify your Perfection Monster, please send me a photo or video of what you choose. I’d love to know!