I tell myself that I dislike perfection, that I am drawn to the flawed. When pressed, I explain that I don’t trust perfection, that there’s something about it that rings false to me, that I just don’t have time for it. And I’m sure that’s mostly true.
My kids dress themselves, so their outfits are rarely coordinated, except by the most abstract of young-boy fashion standards. It’s all I can do to mow the lawns once a week, so often the edges go untrimmed, the weeds are left unpicked. And my husband and I often find ourselves running late for whatever, so we may go days without really connecting. Right now as I’m typing this, there’s a giant smudge on the right lens of my eyeglasses, and I may, or may not, get around to de-smudging it.
The thing is, not only do I not have room for perfection in my own life, I am instantly suspicious of those veneered individuals who drop words like “blessed” and “wonderful” with such frequency that it starts to seem almost like a verbal tic. I’ve written before about the odd sense of pleasure I get in catching glimpses of strife in otherwise perfect looking couples in the park. Just those small moments where mom will say, through a smile of gritted teeth, “No dear, I asked you to bring the sunblock…” It’s not that I enjoy seeing anyone else in an unhappy moment — really, I’m not happy that little Johnny is at risk of getting a sun burn at the park, or that dad will get the guilt treatment later on for allowing said sunburn to occur — it’s just that I find those instances so relate-able, like a quick psychic bonding moment on the fly. I send out a silent “Umm hmmm. Man, we’ve all been there…” to the other couple and am oddly comforted to know that it’s not just me.
The potential problem pops up mostly when I don’t ever see those chinks in the armor of domestic perfection. That’s when I start to get restless. That’s when I have to resist the urge to pick, to poke. To ruffle.
Clearly I’ve got issues. It’s entirely possible that my strong distaste for perfection is just a defense mechanism, perhaps just a bit of overcompensation on my part, no? If I were to strive for perfection and fail, well, that would suck, wouldn’t it? Isn’t it much easier to just play it down with a well-orchestrated, off-handed “Who needs perfection anyway”? And people might be tricked into believing that I just don’t give two hoots, until I blow my cover by penning a suspiciously long blog post on perfection…
image from:http://www.flickr.com/photos/tatemillerton/1586671508/
eleven bee 