The Struggle to be Imperfect

I know a woman who is perfect. Her hair is always glossy, her lips are always a flawless shade of cherry red, her skin is always clear. She wears comfortable and fashionable heels, has a meticulously organized purse, and her accessories always match. She has an interesting and creative job, has a nice office, and gets a very big paycheck. She has a beautiful and spotlessly clean home, and this home has a large kitchen which allows her to cook fabulous meals — since she is also a perfect cook. She has a similarly perfect boyfriend, who has a similarly perfect life. Together, they have the most perfect little dog.

I know this woman so well that I could go on to describe various minute aspects of her life in unnerving detail. If I thought about it for a moment, I could probably tell you the exact shade of lipstick she's wearing (Kyoto Red by Tatcha), the city she lives in (Paris), and the breed of her dog (Cavalier King Charles Spaniel). I know practically everything about her, because I've known her for most of my life.

Here’s the catch: this woman doesn't actually exist.

But she is also the measuring stick by which I judge my life. She is, quite simply, what I believe perfection to look like. I think that most of us carry around a version of her in our minds: the ideal person, the person we should be. We often know tiny, inconsequential details about them, such as the way they make their bed. Why? Because when we make our own beds, and we're not satisfied by the results, we end up thinking about what it "should" look like. We think that if we were simply better people, our own bed-making skills would rival the pictures we see in home-decorating magazines and on Instagram. And then suddenly we know exactly how our own "perfect person" makes their bed, and of course, it's better than ours. …It’s an extreme example, but perhaps you know the feeling?

I have to admit, it can be exhausting, carrying this perfect person around. But it's also tempting, because life seems to suggest that we become what we envision. After all, how hard is it to buy the right shade of red lipstick? Get the right dog? Learn how to copy the bed-making skills we see on Instagram? Slowly, a perfect life seems to come within reach....

The idea of perfection is seductive, if I'm being honest. And the world we currently live in, with its constant advertising and social media inundation, is optimized to sell this idea to us. All we need to do is make the right amount of money, buy the right things, live in the right place, and then life will be perfect. Perfection seems to be the new religion of the West, promising love, happiness, a fulfilling life, and everything else we can ever dream of.

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Because I've come to realize that while the perfect woman I imagine may have the perfect life for herself, it isn't the perfect life for me… because I do not want perfection for perfection’s sake.

What I really want is happiness. And I’m not sure that perfection is the way to get there.

Here's an unsettling thought for you to chew on: psychological studies have shown that we are terrible predictors of what will make us happy. If you're curious about that, I would suggest looking up the research of Daniel Gilbert. He's a leading researcher on human happiness (and interestingly enough, also a science fiction writer). A summary of his more popular research can be found on NPR, although you might prefer the TED talk.

The particular bit of research I'm referring to is about "affective forecasting," or our ability to imagine future situations and predict our happiness in those situations. It turns out that for anything more complicated than "Will onion-flavored ice cream taste good?" or "Will I die if attacked by a tiger?" we're very bad at predicting our own emotional reactions to future circumstances. So that perfect Tatcha lipstick? It might make me happy for a little while, but it's probably not the harbinger of great perfection and beauty that I would like it to be. (And yes, in answer to your question: I do own that lipstick.)

So what if aiming for perfection doesn't promise happiness? What if the perfect shade of lipstick is just a lipstick, rather than a magical formula which will lead to a life of success and contentment? ...Well then in that case, why am I trying so hard to be perfect? What am I actually striving for?

I don't have any answers to these questions. But I have decided to perform an experiment. I am sending my "perfect person" specter on a vacation. She can lounge in Fiji (in her perfect white bikini, which sets off her perfect tan), while I work on giving myself permission to be imperfect. I would like to redirect the energy that I typically waste on perfection -- whether striving for it or lamenting that I don't have it -- towards appreciating what I have.

I'll admit, it's more difficult than I expected. Like I said before, perfection is seductive. I keep catching myself being drawn towards things because they match my image of a perfect life. Some of them are big things, like what kind of internship I want and what sort of career I should strive for. And there are little things too, like the type of skincare products I buy. But I'm learning to slow down and ask myself "Do I want this because I think it will bring me joy, or do I want it because I think a perfect woman would have it?"

I'm finding that I need to clarify my priorities, because my image of perfection no longer provides priorities for me. It doesn't always feel liberating -- sometimes it just feels like one big self-imposed slog through the mess I've accumulated in my mind. I've also found that it can be difficult to justify my decisions to others, because they don't always match up with what I "should" be doing. It would be a lot easier to keep chasing the image of a perfect person.

But I'm willing to practice. And I'm willing to make mistakes, and to learn. Because at the end of the day, I no longer want to become a perfect person.

I only want to become a better version of myself, imperfect and grateful and happy.

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The image at the beginning of this post was provided by Pixabay.