Perfect 9.99999999

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 The Olympics, combined with the romantic ideals of Valentine's Day, seems like a good time to write about something I've been mulling over: being perfect. 

I don't want Mark to call me perfect. Actually, I'd prefer if basically everybody would refrain from calling me perfect. Part of that preference may be a wish to avoid the pressure to be perfect. But a good chunk of  not wanting the label "perfect" is because I know that you know that I'm not.

I rarely make the bed. I usually cook only once a week. Cleaning the apartment is usually the bare minimum [which in my definition means putting away the dishes and laundry, and scrubbing the toilet]. I often don't respond to emails; sometimes I just never read them. In the first four years of owning a car, I knocked off a side mirror twice [first I knocked off the left one, and I couldn't find a side mirror that matched the color of the other one, so I just waited a couple months until I truly-by-accident-I-am-not-kidding knocked off the right one, and then I could get a matching set].

It's not like these are wrong, or even that uncommon with others' habits. But I am very certain these are not the habits of the female paragon.

As I watch Olympians skate, or snowboard, or slide [in luge or skeleton fashion], I can tell there are parts that are not perfect--mostly because the commentators tell me. And I bet each Olympian, with their coaches, will nit-pick each second or movement to say how it should have gone. But I'm sure everyone is glad that medals are given not for perfection, but for the best performance--which are pretty dang good.

You don't have to be perfect to be an Olympian. I don't have to be perfect to be a good human.

Don't cheapen your understanding of me--or any other person, really--by claiming I am or they are perfect. 

We aren't. We're too complex to become so in the time that we live.

Don't stop going for the gold, for the best performance you can give. But don't be ashamed for not getting there just yet.

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