Fuck Perfect

Perfect is a lie.

You’ll never be perfect.

No one will.

Perfect is a maze from which you will never escape. Once you are coming close to perfect, as you grow and learn, your standards will shift, and that “perfect” goal post moves further and further away.

The obsession with creating something perfect means that you won’t want to finish anything, because it won’t come close to meeting your impossible goals.

Or maybe other people’s ridiculously high standards are messing with your goals. Maybe someone else thinks that you need to be a golden, shining example of a perfect employee, a perfect husband, a perfect daughter or a perfect friend.

Fuck that.

Fuck perfect.

Fuck doing things the way other people want us to.

“Perfect” to them is not what “perfect” is to us.

Fuck the plastic shiny-haired girl at work with her PVC skirt and her shiny handbag and her freshly-pressed shirt. Wear what you want to wear. Wear your comfy jeans and your don’t-care-hair and your t-shirt that says you are you and no one else.

Fuck the neighbour’s daughter. The one who was was in your year at high school, who was school captain and the president of the SRC and the debating team and whatever else she could fit into her perfectly timed days. The one who is a lawyer who gets paid more than your whole department combined. For all you know, she’s probably sobbing in her car right now screaming to Alanis Morrissette, narrowly missing hitting the car in the next lane. You’re carving your own path, screaming to your own songs in your own car coming home from your own job (shitty or not) and thinking about her is just a distraction from your own awesomeness.

Fuck the parents who don’t give a shit about you, who mispronounce your friends’ names, who don’t understand that you work 60+ hours a week and get less than they did at your age when things cost double the price and owning a house feels like an impossible dream, the ones who ask about marriage and families when you’re having a hard enough time looking after yourself let alone a tiny helpless human, the ones who expect you to conquer the world (but don’t know how to themselves).

There will be a time for money and babies and marriage (if those are even things you want) and if you don’t want that then say no. Say no to the expectations and the jokes about brunches that cost more than a house deposit (ha, ha). Say no to dinner at 6pm because you don’t leave work until 8. Say no to the parents who don’t get it. They probably never will.

There will always be someone smarter than you, someone funnier, someone who could be better at your job than you are. There will always be someone better looking than you, someone stronger, faster, funnier, hotter, richer, nicer or nastier.

Someone who has more friends, someone who doesn’t give a fuck about having friends, someone more resilient, someone kinder, someone more selfless or someone who is just better than you in someone else’s eyes.

You could be perfect at something, but in some people’s eyes you’ll never be perfect. They may never love you (or even like you).

But “your best” might be different than everyone else’s. It might even be better. Your version of “ok” might be someone else’s version of perfect and you don’t even know it. You’re aiming for “your” 10 when you only need a 7 (which is someone else’s 10).

The problem with perfect is that it stops us from doing things. It’s that voice that says “don’t try” or “don’t submit that” or “it’s too late” or “there’s no point” or “you’re not good enough” when you’re trying to get something done.

Harvey S. Truman said; “imperfect action is better than perfect inaction.” Better to start, now, than never try.

Perfectionism can keep you frozen, like a deer in headlights. The fear of not being perfect stops you from doing anything.

Or it can keep you waiting, procrastinating, preparing, for some time in the far-distant future when your perfectionist self tells you that you’re “ready”.

Fuck perfect, and the people who want you to be perfect.

Try, even if you’re not ready, because one day you will be, and when that time comes, perfect probably won’t even matter anymore.