Let me just say right off the bat: perfection sounds lovely in theory. Like a beach vacation where you never get sunburned and the waiter always knows exactly when to refill your cocktail.
But in practice, perfection is exhausting. It’s the human equivalent of a hotel room where you’re afraid to touch anything because it’s too clean. You sit on the edge of the bed, like a visiting dignitary, and whisper to yourself, “Don’t spill.”
Growing up, I had a brief and unfortunate flirtation with the idea of becoming perfect. This began after reading an article in Parade magazine about a child genius who played the cello blindfolded and had already applied to Yale at the age of six. I, on the other hand, was still wetting the bed and believed that “tartar control” meant my toothpaste could double as a sauce for fish.
Still, I tried. I organized my sock drawer, memorized some impressive-sounding French words (“ménage à trois,” though I didn’t know what it meant), and ate broccoli without gagging. But the problem with chasing perfection is that it never returns your calls. You leave messages, you light candles, you even try bullet journaling, and all you get in return is that same lingering sense that someone else is doing it better; with whiter teeth and better tasting fish sticks.
Let’s be honest: if perfection were a real destination, we’d have reached it by now. There would be signs. You’d go into a Starbucks and everyone would be speaking in gentle tones, fully self-actualized, sipping matcha lattes with no judgment. No one would forget their password. Ever. Airplane seats would fit human asses. And I, personally, would never again have to Google “how to boil an egg.”
But the universe, thankfully, doesn’t work like that. No, we live in a world where perfection only visits on rare occasions; like a polite but elusive aunt who sends you a birthday card once every five years, then vanishes into the mist. One day your hair does exactly what you want it to. A sentence lands just right. You parallel park on the first try; with witnesses. That’s it. That’s your perfection quota for the month. Don’t push it.
And honestly, that’s how it should be. Because if everything were perfect all the time; every conversation smooth, every soufflé risen, every toe never stubbed, we’d all be bored out of our beautifully moisturized minds. Perfection is the end of the story. The credits roll. The camera fades to black. What’s left to strive for when you already are everything?
It’s like building a thousand-piece puzzle only to realize all the pieces were already in place. You’d just stand there holding the box lid, thinking, “Well, I guess I’ll go do laundry?” Which is its own punishment.
Imperfection gives us something to do. It gives us drama and comedy and character. It gives us stories to tell our friends over dinner, like the time I accidentally wore two different shoes to a funeral, or when my sister tried to bleach her hair and ended up looking like a peeled banana. Without imperfection, I’d have no material, and therapists would be out of work.
So yes, we live in a sea of imperfection. But it’s not a punishment. It’s the whole point. Perfection is the frozen still life hanging in the gallery. But life, messy, ridiculous, badly lit, is happening down the hall, in the room where someone spilled wine on the carpet and is laughing about it anyway.
In the end, I’ve decided I don’t want to be perfect. I want to be improving. Flawed but entertaining. Productive but with naps. Like a casserole that didn’t quite hold its shape but still tastes like home.
And if one day, by some cosmic accident, I do achieve perfection, I hope someone will lean in and mess up my hair a little; just to give me something to fix again.
Join us in making the world a better place – you’ll be glad that you did. Cheers friends.
