Zibby Mag

By Jessica Colley Clarke

In the beginning, I dismissed the idea completely. What good could possibly come out of being less competent?

It sounded absurd. The only reason my life ran reasonably smoothly was because of my competence, my list-making, my routines. After all, healthy meals did not magically arrive on the table, dentist appointments did not make themselves, the stash of toilet paper did not replenish itself.

If I was sure about anything at all, it was the positive role competence played in my life. I may still have a long list of things to figure out—how to be a good daughter to a grieving mother, how to balance a career and a personal life, how to continue to grow in a marriage—but competence was not one of them.

I felt scandalized when Audra, my therapist, made the suggestion during a telehealth phone call. She said it so plainly. Have you ever thought about being less competent?

Our calls don’t usually have long silences, but in this instance, I was speechless. Instead of responding, I bought myself time by muttering for clarification. What does that mean, I asked. What would that possibly look like? No sooner had I posed the questions then I realized how defensive I sounded, which usually means Audra was on to something.

How would it feel, she asked, to be less competent?

She paused for a moment. A crow calling outside my office window broke the silence on the line. It seems to be very important to you, she said, this idea of being competent, of doing the right thing, of being prepared. But what would happen if you weren’t? What might happen if instead, you accepted the idea of being incompetent? Or maybe even asked for help? What might that do for you?

I imagine I’m not the only woman who struggles with the idea of asking for help. Blame it on social conditioning or modeling the women who came before us—or perhaps some innate drive to get things done independently, to please others—but articulating needs and requesting help is not where I excel.

In every marriage, there is the person who knows where things are, and the person who doesn’t. I am the person who knows. Peter calls out: where’s the vacuum? Where are the new tennis balls? Where are the spare batteries?

Not only do I know, but it gives me some strange, even physical satisfaction to be able to answer him affirmatively. There are many things I can’t do in our marriage—I can’t flip a switch and stop snoring, I can’t make political views among family members automatically align, I can’t snap my fingers and bring back the spark of our first years together—but I can lead him to the immersion blender. I can tell him where the spare cell phone charger is. Yes, I remember where we stored the bear spray after that one hiking trip a couple summers back. It’s a small satisfaction, but it’s something.

This extra bandwidth left me feeling more nurtured, physically and emotionally. Once I started, I began to see all the ways I could be less competent, and not suffer consequences.

Audra’s thesis was that this “knowing” had become a burden to me, that competence meant bandwidth, and what might I do with this bandwidth that was otherwise occupied with laundry, organization, and lists?

If my husband reached for a clean towel, and there were none, he would inevitably wash a load of towels, without me needing to ask for his help. But, I challenged her, the stack of clean towels gives me pleasure—I like to be able to reach for one myself; I like that in this small way I’m caring for my partner with the pleasure of a dry and fluffy towel on a chilly morning.

Just try it, she said.

When he asks where his shoes are, say you don’t know. When he asks about laundry detergent, say you haven’t been keeping track. And actually do it. Don’t keep track of the stock of toothpaste or Clif Bars or cans of chickpeas. Just stop.

Just, stop?

When challenged at the end of the call to give it a try, to let myself off the competence hook, to find my inner ditz and embrace letting her out, I decided to say yes.

Reader, I liked what I found.

This experiment gave me permission to slack off. If we ran out of milk, Peter walked to the corner store. There was no grumbling about the inconvenience. (For what it’s worth, he never blamed me for the empty container, but something in me made me blame myself.) Instead of me running to the store, I spent more time on other things: yoga, reading, making progress on my memoir, very slowly learning to play the piano.

While the laundry piled up, I chatted on the phone with friends. While the bathroom sink remained clogged, I played tennis. Afterward, Peter and I went out for a beer and Greek food. We talked more in the 90 minutes at the restaurant than we did working from home together all day.

The change was immediate: this extra bandwidth left me feeling more nurtured, physically and emotionally. Once I started, I began to see all the ways I could be less competent, and not really suffer consequences. I could let the gas tank dwindle until the red light came on. I could neglect to replace the lightbulb in the kitchen. I could wear raggedy, old, comfy clothes. I could skip the Friday grocery run and order takeout. Added bonus: no dirty dishes.

I never realized that most things can wait, that competence is great until it is a giant weight you’ve put on your own shoulders, something you insist on carrying around and yet don’t really know why. I was frustrated by its presence, but never stopped to ask what it was doing there in the first place.

This change in perspective wasn’t about tasks never getting done. It was about eliminating an obligation to do them quickly, efficiently—to be good. Emotionally, it was about disentangling the tasks from my idea of competence and self worth. The stacks of clean laundry don’t make me a good partner; finding healthy ways to deal with stress, self-soothing rather than unloading on my husband when I’m upset, listening to him (instead of half-listening while tasking), being present rather than writing a to-do list in my mind—that’s what makes me a good wife.

These days, my shelves may be a bit dusty and my plants need to be pruned and the picture frames are still leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung. But once I learned to experience the joy of being less competent, of choosing to sit outside in a lounge chair in the sun on a bright afternoon while all those tasks remained undone, there was no looking back.

It may go against every impulse in your perfectionist’s mind, but I challenge you: give yourself the permission to be less competent. Just try it.

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Jessica Colley Clarke is a freelance writer working on her first book, a memoir that offers a candid look under the hood of the first year of marriage. She lives in Westchester, New York.