For years I have wrestled with the attempt to be perfect. To be the right weight: the right level of athleticism and fitness because being thin isn’t good enough. To be the right intelligence level – not too smart because then I’m condescending, but too dumb and I’m dismissed. To be the right level of assertive because I’m a woman and we teeter a thin line of too assertive = bitch, not assertive enough = weak.
The list goes on:
Too religious and you’re a fanatic. Not devout enough and you’re going to hell.
Too concerned with cleanliness and order and you’re a clean freak, Type A, anal retentive, uptight. Too messy and you’re dirty, disheveled, “endangering your children.”
Too attached to your children and you’re suffocating. Not attached enough and you’re neglectful.
Perky and you’re a ditz. Serious and you’re cold, callous, and unwelcoming.
Do something for yourself and you’re selfish. Give to everyone and put yourself last and you’re at risk for burnout.
Willing to compromise is for pushovers. Standing ground is for ball busters.
Concerned with how you look and you’re vain. Not concerned enough and you’re sloppy.
Spend too much time at work, you’re a workaholic. Not enough and you’re lazy. 40 hours – is that really enough?
Gah! It’s exhausting.
So after nearly 40 years, my new attempt is to get comfortable with imperfection. To be ok with not being enough or being too much. To redefine the term “perfect.”
To see the beauty in the unexpected. The humor in the painful. The lessons in the loss.
Life isn’t all perfect. And it’s not all horrible either. 95% of the time it’s somewhere between Pinterest board-worthy and Pinterest Fails. And that middle ground is 100% ok.
