There is a very (VERY) small handful of things in my life that are apple-pie perfect. They are in yours, too. And they probably aren’t the things you set out to purposely make exemplary.
My latest mode of inspiration is to find joy in life’s small things. For those of you who haven’t known me since I was yea high, I was quite the suffocating perfectionist growing up. I’ve let a lot go, on purpose, in order to preserve my sanity. Not that I’m not still too hard on myself (I consider it beneficial, in a masochistic way), but there are far too many laughable events on a daily basis to take everything as seriously as I once did.
I am not the perfect wife. I cling when upset, pop zits, am appalled by debase humor, and only cook sporadically. My pajamas are frumpy, I’m not a great beer-drinker or a sandwich-maker, and I cross in front of the television during crucial sporting moments (thank God for DVR).
But I do have an impeccable credit score.
I am not the perfect driver. Though I’ve been clean for almost three years, I have far from a perfect record (like the summer I got 3 traffic tickets), and I tend to drive my car until it’s begging for gas.
But I’ve never had a cavity.
I am not the perfect mother. I use disposable diapers. I let Carter wear his pajamas past noon. Sometimes his bottles are only luke warm. I mock the way my son cries. Mature, I know.
But I can almost always make people laugh.
I’m not the perfect friend. Sometimes I don’t text back for hours. I get excited and make plans, forgetting I had prior obligations. My responsibilities mean that I have to go long periods of time without seeing the girls dearest to my heart.
But I am really considerate of other people.
I am not the strongest person. I say yes when I want to say no. I don’t always stand up for myself. I try to please people I don’t even enjoy spending time with. I sugar coat my emotions. Even to myself. And this is dishonest. And weak.
But I gave birth without pain medication.
I do not have the perfect body. I have fat knees and dry hair. My blood lacks the ability to coagulate and my arms lack the ability to carry Carter’s ever-gaining carseat across much more than a parking lot.
But I produce really cute offspring. Seriously. I should get paid to do that. (I can’t believe how big he’s grown!)
I’m gross. No, really, I just absentmindedly sipped out of a cherry limeade that was left on the table overnight.