I know you're concerned about disappointing me, but I want you to take comfort from the knowledge that my expectations of you are very low.
There is no shame in being wrong. Nobody expects much from you, anyway.
The secret for happiness is low expectations.
Explanation:
TEDGlobal 2005: The paradox of choice
The problem isn't the kids. It's not even what they can achieve. The problem is what you expect them to achieve. You are setting the bar here. Why? Set it up here! They can make it.
They say a woman marries a man with the belief she can change him, and she can’t. A man marries a woman with the belief that she won’t change, and she does. We do.
People who are confident in themselves never talk about expectations. “Expectation” is a word rooted in giving up. It leaves you with no other choice. It makes it obvious that you’re powerless.
Will you hold on to me
I am feeling frail
Will you hold on to me
We will never fail
I wanted to be so perfect, you see
I wanted to be so perfect...
Mary Crawford: — If Tom is not able to recover, Edmund will be the heir. Wealth and consequence could fall into hands no more deserving. I understand you think I should not say such things. But one must prepare oneself for every eventuality. It is the mark of an evolved individual. I advise that you, Sir Thomas, do not injure your cause by interference. Let things take their course. That may be a difficult thing, but although Tom, bless his heart, may not be strong enough for this world, the rest of us must be. I speak merely of what must be done, not what I feel.
Fanny Price: — You may wish to reconsider your eagerness for Tom's death.
Mary Crawford: — You may wish to reconsider your thinly-veiled anger towards me! If you'd accepted my brother, you'd be now on the point of marriage, and Henry would not be on terms with Mrs. Rushworth. It would have ended in a regular flirtation in meetings at Sotherton and Everingham. It could all be construed as your fault.
Edmund Bertram: — Your startling adaptability to my brother's possible demise sends a chill through my heart. A chill... You're cheerfully planning parties with his money! You shush my father like a dog at your table. You attack Fanny for following her own infallible guide on matters of the heart. All this has grievously convinced me that the person I've so dwelt on has been a creature of my own imagination! Not you, Miss Crawford... You are a stranger to me. I do not know you, and I'm sorry to say, I have no wish to.
We feel trapped by the names we’ve been given, as symbols of the intentions and expectations of others...
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or a No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
or waiting for wind to fly a kite
or waiting around for Friday night
or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake
or a pot to boil, or a Better Break
or a sting of pearls, or a pair of pants
or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.
Everyone is just waiting.
— Oh! That was amazing! How was it for you? Tell me everything.
— It was pretty anticlimactic.
— Yeah, well, welcome to humans.
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