Authentic > Perfect
“Perfect is boring.”
I grew up hearing this phrase on repeat. Probably more frequently than the Sesame Street theme song—which is really saying something. My mom would utter it like a mantra whenever my sister or I got frustrated with our fingers, clumsily navigating them through a messy drawing or messy hair day. She told us that not only is being perfect a completely unrealistic goal—but that even if you achieved it—you’d find it so utterly dull that all your work and worry would be for nothing.
The woman was onto something.
I’m not sure how she knew that my Great War with Perfection would be a psychologically bloody battle throughout my life. I don’t know if she’s a psychic or soothsayer or if she’s just always known me really, really well. Maybe she spotted my mini-OCD moments—the organization of my toys in a perfect line at the age of 2 or how I cared for my dolls or how I hated being dirty or disorganized—and she added them up, deciding to take a more proactive parenting approach.
No matter what kind of clairvoyance my mother may or may not possess, I’ve been losing the battle against Perfection for years. I’ve been her prisoner for as long as I can remember, developing a sort of Stockholm Syndrome, “No, you don’t understand. Perfection is actually really nice once you get to know her.”
The most frustrating part is that I rationally understand that perfection is unachievable. That there are always flaws, blemishes, nicks, typos and creases—in plans, in pants, in people. That it’s impossible to control all aspects of life and manufacture real emotions the way I would manipulate images in Photoshop. And yet, I can’t let go of this longing for the unattainable. That skinny siren calls my name with every Pinterest photo, magazine cover, Pottery Barn brochure and skin cream ad (oh the irony).
I blame the wedding for bringing out this compulsion in me recently. Sure it’s usually stirring around inside of me—pushing for straight A’s and such—but all of the wedding planning and pressure (self-inflicted, of course) has been making my Perfection Reflex flare up more dramatically, like a weak ankle at the end of a marathon.
It’s pathetic, really. This compulsive need to achieve the illusion of perfection. Because it IS an illusion. My mother was totally right: there’s no such thing as perfect—and if there was, it’d be BORING AS SHIT. If everything went according to plan, and everything was done by the books, there’d be no room for joyful surprises, unexpected moments of tension and drama. None of that spontaneous joie de vivre. No poorly timed thunderstorms or snow days. And where is the humor, delight and fun in a surprise-less script that you wrote yourself? There’s beauty in the random and unexpected and even the unpleasant.
And don’t even get me started about how this whole concept of life being perfect if you’re in the puppeteer seat is deeply hubristic. It just reeks of arrogance…thinking that you know better. That you could better craft a perfect evening with friends—more so than if you just simply let go and let plans unfold naturally. If you let the stars and the mood and the magic just happen on its own.
These last few months before our wedding, I’m choosing to let go. Instead of fighting the uphill battle every day, I choose to find beauty and joy in the unexpected and in the real. In real life. Real emotions. Gritty, messy, ugly, hard, scary, stressful, unexpected life. It’s time to put on my brave face and not be afraid to get dirty. To get the hiccups. To get a pimple. To let go and have fun. Stop stressing about where we’re going to park. About getting straight 5.0’s on my performance review. Why can’t I just be my authentic self? My obnoxious, too loud, too curious, too quirky self?
One of my goals this year is to be more authentic. More honest. Less uptight and less controlled. To let go and embrace the realness and ugliness and awkwardness.
To just let go and let life. Unclench. Breathe. Live.
Yes, I am ditching Perfect. Leaving her for Authentic.
And it’s going to be divine.
