I might always get zits. I might always run a little late in the mornings. I might always love Whitney Houston key changes. I might always color-code my closet. I might always get annoyed when people open a new box of crackers / gallon of milk / bottle of mustard before they’ve finished the old one. I might always hate my legs. I might always be self-critical. I might always fall behind on returning phone calls. I might always be a little bit particular. I might always withdraw when I feel overwhelmed. I might always smudge my nail polish. I might always feel a tiny bit sad. I might always crave peanut M&M’s. I might always be afraid of swimming. I might always feel like people who drive stick shifts are superior. I might always hate the summertime. I might always be tempted to roll my eyes at girls who I am actually envious of. I might always be tempted to roll my eyes at guys who actually have hurt me. I might always wonder a little bit. I might always worry a little bit.

These things may never change.

And it’s okay.

And those things about you that have been there from the beginning – the things that you are continually calling into question – the things that you feel like you should change and you’re wondering why you can’t? They might never change either.

And that’s okay, too.

I was in the dairy section of the grocery store last night when a crisis hit me like a rake to the face. Reaching for my usual quart of Dannon Light & Fit vanilla yogurt, I noticed three terrible words: “Great New Taste!”

What.

Why do they need to go changing my favorite yogurt? I don’t need it to have a “great new taste” – I loved the old taste. And! AND! What’s worse: it has increased from 80 calories per serving to 110 calories per serving. I DO NOT LIKE THIS. This is almost as bad as the day that they started packaging Tampax in bright orange wrappers – an absolute betrayal. How is one expected to be inconspicuous with something orange – the color of panic devices, like flares and Coast Guard buoys and the terrorist attack level “High”?

It’s not quite as bad as the day I found out that they no longer produce Burt’s Bees Lip Shimmer in “Coffee”. But still. Completely unjust.

I come from a long line of calorie counters – it’s in my genes. At various points in my life, I have been absolutely ruled by the regimented balancing act of caloric consumption/expulsion. Last summer, I achieved what should have been a dieter’s nirvana, reaching the lowest weight of my life and fitting into the tiniest pants I’ve ever owned; however, I still felt a panic and a desperate need for control. I still saw my pipe-cleaner arms to be flabby, my thighs to be trunk-like, and my flat stomach to be completely unworthy of a bathing suit.

I couldn’t relish the accomplishment of it all. I was too busy worrying about gaining an ounce.

Since then, I have considerably loosened my tight rein on calorie counting. While my mind feels a little bit freer, my body is also a little bit heavier. What’s a girl to do?

I want to live in freedom from the oppression of low self-esteem, terrible body image, calorie counting, exercise obsession, and general control freakage. I’m not there yet. But I want to be. And for me, I think that “freedom” is going to have to mean weighing a few pounds more than I know that I could weigh. It’s going to mean not beating myself up over my caloric failures of the day when I crawl into bed at night. It’s going to mean recognizing and living out a healthy balance of enjoying food, and being active, and getting enough sleep, and having a glass of wine if I want one, but not having too many.

It’s going to mean eating the extra 30 calories of yogurt. And it’s going to mean not flipping out about it.

Imagine that I weigh 300 lbs. Got it? Okay. Now imagine that I have a sprained ankle. And asthma. And flip flops on my feet. And it’s 113 degrees outside.

Now, put me in the middle of a pack of marathon runners with fabulously long legs and handy water bottle packs strapped around their waists. They’re all stretching and high-5ing each other, shaking out their limbs, ready to kick some serious road race booty. Then the shot sounds, and they’re off… and I am aiming to keep up with them for 26.2 miles.

That’s a little bit how I feel when it comes to songwriting in Nashville.

Nashville is where really good songwriters live. This is where people come to make a career out of writing songs. They are gifted, and skilled, and practiced. They are amazing. They are transcendent. And while I know that songwriting is anything but effortless, they make it look effortless – like someone who is born to run, gracefully bounding like a gazelle. And I’m heavily slogging far behind, huffing and puffing, barely able to put one foot in front of the other – let alone master the bar chords.

Sometimes I wonder why I thought it was a good idea for me to move here – HERE, of all places! – when I really had no idea what I was doing. I am an amateur, a novice – at the shallow end of the talent pool, splashing around because I love the water, but never able to venture beyond the 3 foot depth mark.

True, in theory, I moved here to Nashville to learn. But the learning comes slowly. It takes time, and it takes work. To be honest, I’ve never really had to work for anything in my life. As a child, school came easily. Friends came easily. Music came easily – that is, up until now. If anything did not come naturally, like, oh, ANY PHYSICAL EXERTION WHATSOEVER, then I simply did not do it. I hate the feeling of doing something poorly, and so I have avoided situations in which I might fail.

Logical Annie says, “It’s not a competition. You do not have to be perfect. You have something unique to offer. You just need to keep working at it. Good ideas will come. Good songs will come. You’re growing and improving, even when you don’t feel like it. This is all an adventure, a grand experiment, and it’s a good thing you’re here.”

Gloomy Annie says, “Maybe I should just move to Nebraska.”

The deed is done – I made it through my first writer’s round without a) train-wrecking, or b) crying. I had about 10 friends who made it out, which meant so much, especially since I still call myself “new to Nashville” – thanks to those of you who came. I was lucky enough to share the stage with Matt Dorrien and Chris Moynihan, who are both great writers and actually know how to play the guitar. True to my word, I was not perfect – but it was fun, I played my 3 songs, and when I smiled, I meant it.

And I NEVER HAVE TO PLAY MY FIRST SHOW IN NASHVILLE AGAIN!

A potentially-embarrassing-yet-ultimately-hysterical moment:

My parents sent me flowers. Yes, to the bar. Like, “Oh, you’re Annie Parsons? We have a special delivery for you! Let me bring it over to your table! In front of all of these people!”

At first, I felt my face burning up – but then I ripped open the card:

From the reverend and his lovely wife. Are they hilarious or what? (Note: for full context, read this.) Thanks to Erin, Casey, and my mother for unwittingly collaborating to coin the new “Go get ‘em.” The best part of this story is the thought of my mom on the phone with some Nashville florist, saying, “Yes, I’d like the card to read… ‘You’re the shit.’ Yes. Yes, ‘the shit.’ S-H-I-T.”

Tonight is the night. My first time playing out in Nashville.

Good thing that I will only have to say that once in my entire life.

Eleanor Roosevelt said to “do something everyday that scares you.” Apparently I haven’t done anything scary for about 9 years, and it is all converging in this one little 3-song event. Then again, for as terrifying as it all seems, it’s also exciting to finally, FINALLY be doing something.

The past 6 months or so have held the consistent theme of letting go of perfectionism. It’s a hard lesson to learn, but also… freeing. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I don’t have to be perfect. The important thing is to try. And to wear something cute while doing it.

Last night, I experienced two very wonderful things.

The first was tapas, which is Spanish for “order at least four.”

The second was open mic night at the Bluebird Café, which reminded me why I am extraordinarily excited to live in Nashville.

The songwriting that happens here is astonishing. I sat there all alone, wrapped in my coat and scarf, watching musician after musician take the stage to share their one song. Some were run of the mill, but others brought me to tears. A few caused me to have an actual physical reaction: goosebumps, an involuntary grin, misty eyes. It was simultaneously inspiring and terrifying to think that if I choose, when I live here I will have the opportunity to share my songs in the same way.

When it comes to songwriting, I go back and forth between feeling confident and hopeful, and entirely lame. Sometimes I think that I definitely have the instinct, the honesty, and the wit, and am only lacking the practice. “Craft” is something that must develop with time and experience – and who knows? With time, I might evolve into someone worth listening to. But other times, I feel overwhelmed at the task of creating something good, and since it doesn’t happen instantaneously and effortlessly, I sigh and decide that it’s not worth pursuing. That I will always be a phony.

Such is the life of a blatant perfectionist.

I do not want the latter to win out. I want to keep writing, and keep trying, and keep singing, even if no one ever looks my way twice. I do not want to give up on something that inspires such joy and satisfaction and wonder in me. I really, really love to write. And that should be enough to keep me hanging in there, even in the midst of the antagonistic voices in my head.

Nashville is overwhelmingly full of remarkable talent, and I’d best be quitting the comparison game right now if I have any hope of development. Because maybe – just maybe – I might actually have something to offer.