Lately, I've been thinking a lot about perfection. I've been thinking about our desire to strive for it, my desire to strive for it, even though I know I'm far from it. I think about the things I have done wrong, (I know it's wrong to dwell in the past) the friends I have hurt, the times I drank too much [insert alcohol here], the times I miss spoke, the times I was rude, lost my temper, yelled....
The list goes on.
But, here's the thing, I know I am not perfect. So, why does my brain strive for 90° angles and coordinating colors? Why does it think of how else to improve the space in my office, the color of the walls in my home, the words in this line...
I want to use psychology and blame my mother, but I know the only person who is hard on me is me.
This past weekend, as I sat with my lovely friend Sarah, she said, "I'm not worried about anyone putting pressure on you. I'm worried about you putting pressure on you."
I opened my mouth to protest but knew she had a point. Instead, I nodded, eyes on the table.
My brain works like a Rubik's cube trying to figure out how this happened even though I know I won't have an answer.
So, instead, I try to steer my brain to other directions, to saying things like, "I tried my best. Friends grow apart. You drank too much, you (somewhat) learned from it. You have a big mouth try to watch it, You're going to be rude once in a while. Deal with it. You will lose your temper. It will happen. Try to be conscious of it. Most importantly, you are and will never be perfect, and you shouldn't try to be."
Perfect is boring. Repeat. Perfect is boring.