I have this memory–either from grade school or grad school (honestly, I
can’t remember) of a teacher/professor/instructor telling me that most writers
avoid second-person narration.

First-person = I

Second-person = you

Third-person = omniscient/all-knowing/god

Now, the other day, on a walk with my rescue pit, Zara, at 5:30 in the
morning, before coffee, but after brushing my teeth, remembering poop bags,
lacing up my sneakers, and starting the coffee maker so that the water dressed
in brown would be ready for me upon our return–I remembered that I did not
make my bed.

And then I remembered that book, or graduation speech, or graduation speech
turned book, by a retired armed serviceman (I think Naval officer, but I’m
doing my best to write this without doing so much research) about the
importance of making your bed—starting your day with an accomplishment. The
tactical and practical approach stuck with me.

Some posts about my checkered relationship with bedmaking are buried in this
blog. I resisted it for most of my childhood and early adult years–then became
an evangelist for it for the better part of my thirties and early forties (much
thanks to that speech/book and its reinforcement in a podcast called Last
8% Morning that I also followed religiously during the height of the COVID
pandemic).

On this particular walk, my neurodivergent brain leaped from the lecture
regarding the rare use of second-person narration to that speech or book about
the significance of bedmaking to my recall of not actually making my bed that
morning. Then, I refocused on Zara and did my best to pay attention during our
limited and essential outside morning together time before heading back in and
launching phase two: getting the two-legged kiddo (Briggs) to school (fed and
groomed) on time.

In between gentle (and not so gentle) instructions to get dressed, brush
teeth, use deodorant, and grab the soft pretzel requested for his first meal of
the day (all while prepping Zara’s food, water, and meds), I said (out loud):
“That’s bullshit, almost every self-help book I’ve ever read is at least
partially written in second-person.”

By this time, Briggs was already in the car. As I entered the driver’s seat
with my travel mug full of homemade coffee with perfectly frothed
coconut-almond creamer, I told Briggs, “It’s only six forty-five, and I’ve
already completed more than a dozen tasks.”

He said, “Okay.”

“I can make my bed when I get back. I don’t need to have that one task
be the first I complete every morning for it to count.”

Briggs chose not to engage. 🙂

After dropping him off, making the ride home, taking a shower, getting
dressed, checking my calendar, and sending a few emails, I went back into my
room and took two minutes to make my bed.

From the time I started consuming self-help material, I intellectually knew
that none of the instructions or directions were vetted or guaranteed–but I’m
confident I lacked the emotional intelligence (or courage) to reframe all
second-voice material (Make your bed. Go outside. Take a walk. Mediate. Avoid
sugar and carbohydrates. Limit inflammatory foods.) as best-intended first-person
offerings:

I make my bed every morning. It helps me set up my day and realize
accomplishments. You could try.

I spend a lot of time outside. It helps me feel calm and centered. You
could try.

I walk a lot. It helps me feel really good in my body. You could try.

And on and on.

Most days, I make my bed, and I’ve noticed that I tend to feel better on
those days. I also really love walking into my bedroom and seeing a made bed. For
me, it’s validation that I’ve got some things together; that feels especially
important when many other things are coming undone.

Currently, I don’t have any space or interest in taking or giving advice, but
I’m infinitely interested in learning more about what is and isn’t working for
you and maybe sharing a bit of the same from my point of view.

 

My two and four-legged kiddos, Briggs & Zara.