The Obsession with Perfection

            For years my husband has begged me to not care so much about what people think of me. It’s not that he doesn’t want me to care at all; it’s just that he doesn’t want me to put so much emphasis on other’s opinions of me. He’s onto something, as it’s important to care a little, but it’s toxic to care too much, which happens to be where I’ve lived most of my life. .

            I’m the one who leaves parties replaying conversations in her head to make sure she didn’t say anything offensive (even if it was what I really thought). I’m the one who then apologizes to the friends (or random souls) that I happened to converse with at said party about a comment that they no longer remember. You can see what a huge waste of time and energy this is, and the truth is that it’s not all about me. It never has been, and it never will be.

            When you finally realize that every single action in your life doesn’t have to please, let alone affect, every single person in the world, you can begin living your own life. I’m just beginning to follow my arrow, and there are plenty of times when I relapse into my people pleasing tendencies. However, I have found that when I’m true to myself, things go so much better for me — and ironically for everyone around me. 

            We live in a world that is obsessed with perfection. It seems like almost every television show features a competition. You can’t just make a good cupcake. You have to make a cupcake that’s infused with bacon, looks like a geode and leaves a taste of marmalade in your mouth. Even if you accomplish this baking feat, there are three to four perfectly coifed judges (many with exotic accents and who look as if they’ve never been in the same room with a cupcake) that will tell you what you did wrong. 

            Don’t misunderstand me, constructive criticism is essential to becoming better at anything, but these shows revolve around petty comments and vapid commentary. They aren’t improving anything except their inflated opinions of themselves. 

            While you can turn off your television, which I highly recommend, you can’t turn off people’s tendencies to judge and critique. I’m judgmental, and I hate that about myself. If I see someone wearing what I deem is a ridiculous outfit, my mind instantly puts them on a Glamour Don’t page. It’s a terrible habit that I’m trying to break, but the problem is that our society isn’t trying to break it at all because it’s all we do. (I feel obligated right now to share my stance on the return of “high-waist mom jeans.” Anyone who was a teenager in the 1980s knows that this is a dreadful mistake that has no place in anyone’s wardrobe. No one looks good in these things. I repeat no one. Make it stop.) 

            Last week I went to a performance at the legendary Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. This is sacred ground for country music and music in general. My dear friend who just moved to Nashville treated me to a Dolly Parton tribute concert. The level of musicianship I heard that evening was astounding. These folks could play and sing anything on demand. 

            At the end of the evening, a singer came on stage and began singing Parton’s hallmark hit I Will Always Love You (aka the Olympics of belting). The band gave her one note, and she began beautifully singing the first verse a capella. When the band came back in, she was way off key. Instead of pretending it didn’t happen and switching to their key, she stopped singing and asked if she could try it again. The keyboardist gave her the note, she sang the first verse beautifully once more and this time when the band came in, she nailed it. By the end of the song, folks were giving her a standing ovation, and I was one of the first ones on my feet. 

            This young woman had a magical voice, so much so that I’ll probably attend a tribute concert for her one day, but what I loved about her the most was that she screwed up and tried again. She owned that she wasn’t perfect right in the middle of the Ryman Auditorium stage. It was one of the coolest performances I’ve ever seen, and it made me respect her not just as an artist, but also as a human being. 

            I’ve screwed up a lot in my lifetime, and I’m not finished making mistakes. For years I would hide my blunders — think SAT scores, bangs, taking the wrong job, my lack of knowledge regarding literary classics and believing that Sun-In was a viable hair-coloring tool. I was afraid that if people discovered I wasn’t perfect or that I wasn’t the perfect person they envisioned me to be, I would disappoint them. It’s only been in the past couple of years that I’ve realized how much that doesn’t matter one damn bit.  

            I am who I am. I’m messy. I wasn’t a debutante. I hate iceberg lettuce. I’ve never read Little Women or seen The Sound of Music. My 47-year-old face still breaks out. There are people in this world that I really don’t like. I don’t understand why folks are obsessed with the Kardashians. My teeth are chipped because I grit them so hard when I sleep. I go to IKEA to buy my good furniture. I never watched Downton Abbey until I went to see the movie with my friends. And I hate snow skiing. There, the truth is out. 

             I AM NOT PERFECT, but I am perfectly good at being me. Slowly but surely, I’m beginning to see that that’s not so bad, and that, my friends, is a tremendous Wink of Goodness. 

            The beauty of our lives is in the messes we make and what we do with them. If we kick them under the rug, they lose their power. If we bring them out into the light, we can study them carefully, reaping wisdom by the score. 

            This past year has been one of the hardest of my life, but I know that I will forever refer back to it because of the lessons I learned. If 2019 had been all sunshine and rainbows, I wouldn’t give it a second thought. So while society keeps perpetuating its obsession with perfection, I’ll be applauding for the singers out there starting over.