Perfect Is Only a Word

Photo by Vivian Chambers

Very few things can be perfect. (Very few things should be perfect.) A chocolate chip cookie can be perfect. The first swim in the ocean after a long winter can be perfect, too. So can a flower in a garden. But even then, a cookie can crumble, the water may be too cold, the flower is bound to wilt.

I’ve been toying with the idea that perfection is not the end goal (or not my end goal, at least). Perhaps this is strange, unexpected, really, as from the minute our young minds can grapple with the idea of perfection, we feel inclined to embark on our own journeys to obtain it. They tell us “nobody’s perfect” but maybe, just maybe, I’ll be the one to prove them wrong. I can defeat the odds: I can be perfect. And this decision is usually made subconsciously, veiled by efforts to please others, make the right choices, come across as a “good person.” At least, mine was. I eagerly hopped on the one way train to perfection (the problem with train rides is you can only watch what’s going on outside the window, never experience it for yourself). But eventually, it all comes down to the daunting question: Am I pleased with myself? Maybe everyone else likes me, but at what cost? Also, this train ride is getting really long, and I’m still not quite sure when it’ll reach the last stop. 

I can’t help but think to a friend I had once who we all admired for her cheerful nature, which, on its face, seemed to be unfaltering. You’d always see her smiling (she did have -- still has, I hope -- a great smile). She told me once that she hated the way people always expected her to be sporting that radiant grin, as if it was her responsibility to always exude happiness for others to soak up. Sometimes she didn’t even have enough happiness for herself. 

The pressure to be perfect is suffocating. It forms four walls around us, boxes us in, leaves us trapped with no escape. The issue is there is no step by step procedure for us to follow, no copy of How to Live A Flawless Life for Dummies readily available to free us. It is instead up to our minds -- our vulnerable, impressionable minds -- to fabricate (and follow) this guidebook by ourselves. It’s a terrifying day when you realize your mind is wholly incapable of giving you all the answers. I think that’s when it’s time to realize perfection isn’t going to set you free. It’s a sense of self (or, at least, the first step toward self discovery. I’ll get back to you when I figure out Who The Hell I Am). 

So between me, myself, and I, I’ve developed this goal to allow my mind to be the most beautiful thing about me. Let me be clear: this does not translate to letting it be the happiest thing about me. Not the most organized thing about me, either. “Beautiful” shows progress, shows strength, shows triumph and setbacks and every time I fell only to get right back up. I don’t want my mind to be pretty or exclusively content -- and most certainly not perfect. 

If perfect is an empty word, then “nobody’s perfect” feels to be to be an empty phrase. When we’re told “nobody’s perfect,” it implies that it’s something we, as human beings, are downright incapable of achieving. It implies that if we could procure this untouchable ideal, then we would embrace it wholeheartedly (as if it would make us complete). It mocks us. It hangs above us, laughing to itself, You’ll never have me, but it if’s any solace, neither will anyone else. I’ll argue what we should be saying is “nobody should be perfect.” We’re complete without perfection. In fact, we’re more complete with our flaws then without them. Maybe this is a bit exaggerated, but I’ll propose this: to call me “perfect” is an insult. To call me perfect takes away my complexity, my battles, my growth. To call me perfect is to tell me you haven’t the slightest idea of who I am, who I once was, who I strive to be, just in fewer words.

I’ve climbed off that train that told me it would take me to where I could find my perfect persona. You know, the train on a very direct, linear, exact, controlling, inescapable path that dictates your actions, your choices, your thoughts (how dare it). To be fair, I hopped off in the middle of nowhere, in a big open field, with little guidance. (Maybe I jumped off because the landing hurt a little and now I’m dizzy). That’s where I stand now, my mind as open and free (and at times, blank and lost) as the expanse I stand in.

It’s been 17 years, and I’m not quite sure what perfect looks like (or feels like, for that matter). I suppose it comes in different forms for each and every person. Merriam Webster tells me perfect can be defined as, “being entirely without fault or defect,” but who gets to decide what is faulty and what is not? I imagine what I would be quick to deem flawless others may consider appalling (in fact, I know -- I bought the “perfect sweater” a few months ago only for my mom to call it ugly). This is why it is so dangerous as living breathing human beings with Unique Perspectives and Growing Minds to try to present ourselves as perfect. A lot of conversations my best friend and I have circle back to this: You simply can’t please them all. No matter what you do, no matter how good your intentions, no matter how sure you are that you’ve made the optimal choice, someone will find a reason to criticize, no matter how small.

I won’t preach the whole Don’t Care About What Anybody Thinks spiel (as much as I’d like to, that would be far too hypocritical on my end). But honestly, I love it when the cookie crumbles -- it makes the flavor last longer in my mouth. I love the shock of the cold water overwhelming my toes, my legs, my stomach, my neck, my head, my hair -- it’s invigorating. And a wilted flower isn’t a sad thing. It’s a relic of something beautiful, something that allowed itself to grow into it’s best self…