Relentless perfectionism is fucking exhausting and it’s also a total bore. It wears people into the ground. The carefully crafted facade of rigid adherence to the regimen of the shallow presentation of image that says this all must be maintained to the ordered minutia of the reasonable facsimile of a life, ends in the collapse of one out of order straw on a camel’s back, on some seemingly average day, when some errant stain on the ideal sofa, the new sectional, the conversation pit, ever so imperceptibly begins to spiderweb the glass. One day you can’t quite get that one hair to lay down, and all the rage of that inability to control every last thing, spills out, until it becomes the avalanche that could never happen to you. Until one day you come home and all the perfection mocks you, and all you can think of is the warm, fuzzy, stained, robe, that you threw away because it didn’t go with the idea that you had of yourself, or the one that you wanted everyone else to have. No one ever really believes all that perfection anyway, especially not those of us who were perfect once too.
I’ve learned to love “the best I can do,” and, “good enough.”
Because you’d never put pink toilet paper in a green bathroom.