You read the blog posts, the magazine articles, about how we shouldn’t strive for perfection. It’s unattainable. They even make you feel a bit silly for trying.
Then they flip the coin. They show you perfect houses. Perfect looking skin. Perfect hair. Perfect alertness. Instagram filters and mega pixels.
Get real. It doesn’t exist. Perfect is a word humans concocted to make each other feel inadequate. It’s a word that, in reality, means impossible.
Why don’t we admit this? My theory is simply that we love to torture ourselves.
I walk through my door, see my disheveled kitchen, the scum that I can’t get off my faucet with the most abrasive pickax, and I feel it. The flare. The acid- like a water fountain, spritzing in my gut.
Am I the only one, I ask.
Stop telling me to put aside fifteen minutes. Stop telling me if I just try a little harder I can grasp this illusive carrot. Stop shoving your OCD on me.
I want to sit in my mostly clean, but life-like home and feel no pain. No pressure.
Is that too much to ask?