I know a woman who is perfect. Her hair is always glossy, her lips are always a flawless shade of cherry red, her skin is always clear. She wears comfortable heels, has a meticulously organized purse, and her accessories always match. She has an interesting and creative job, has a nice office, gets a big paycheck. She has a beautiful and spotlessly clean home, and this home has a large kitchen which allows her to cook fabulous meals — since she’s also a perfect cook. She has a similarly perfect boyfriend, who has a similarly perfect life. Together, they have the most perfect little dog.
I know this woman so well that I could go on to describe various minute aspects of her life in unnerving detail. If I thought about it for a moment, I could probably tell you the exact shade of lipstick she’s wearing (Kyoto Red by Tatcha), the city she lives in (Paris), and the breed of her dog (Cavalier King Charles Spaniel). I know practically everything about her, because I’ve known her for most of my life.
Here’s the catch: this woman doesn’t actually exist.
But she’s also the measuring stick by which I judge my life. I have to admit that it can be exhausting, carrying this perfect person around. But it’s also tempting, because life seems to suggest that we become what we envision. After all, how hard is it to buy the right shade of red lipstick? Get the right dog? Slowly, a perfect life seems to come within reach…
The idea of perfection is seductive, if I’m being honest. And the world we currently live in, with its constant advertising and social media inundation, is optimized to sell this idea to us. Perfection seems to be the new religion of the West, promising love, happiness, a fulfilling life, and everything else we can ever dream of.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Because I’ve come to realize that while the perfect woman I imagine may have the perfect life for herself, it isn’t the perfect life for me… because I don’t want perfection for perfection’s sake.
What I really want is happiness. And I’m not sure that perfection is the way to get there.
Here’s an unsettling thought I’ve been chewing on recently: psychological research has shown that we’re terrible predictors of what will make us happy. (If you, like me, are a nerd and want to learn more about that, allow me to point you in the direction of Daniel Gilbert. He’s a leading researcher on human happiness — and interestingly enough, also a science fiction writer.)
The particular bit of research I’m referring to is about “affective forecasting,” or our ability to imagine future situations and predict our happiness in those situations. It turns out that for anything more complicated than “Will onion-flavored ice cream taste good?” or “Will I die if attacked by a tiger?” we’re really bad at predicting our own emotional reactions to future circumstances. So that perfect Tatcha lipstick? It might make me happy for a little while, but it’s probably not the harbinger of great perfection and beauty that I’d like it to be. (And yes, in answer to your question: I do own that lipstick.)
So what if aiming for perfection doesn’t promise happiness? What if the perfect shade of lipstick is just a lipstick, rather than a magical formula which will lead to a life of success and contentment? …Well then in that case, why am I trying so hard to be perfect? What am I actually striving for?
I don’t have any answers to these questions. But I’ve decided to perform an experiment. I’m sending my “perfect person” specter on a vacation. She can lounge in Fiji (in her perfect white bikini, which sets off her perfect tan), while I work on giving myself permission to be imperfect. I’d like to redirect the energy that I typically waste on perfection — whether striving for it or lamenting that I don’t have it — towards appreciating what I have.
I’ll admit, it’s more difficult than I expected. Like I said before, perfection is seductive. I keep catching myself being drawn towards things because they match my image of a perfect life. Some of them are big things, like what kind of internship I want and what sort of career I should strive for. And there are little things too, like the types of skincare products I should buy. But I’m learning to slow down and ask myself “Do I want this because I think it will bring me joy, or do I want it because I think a perfect woman would have it?”
I’m finding that I need to clarify my priorities, because my image of perfection no longer provides priorities for me. It doesn’t always feel liberating — sometimes it just feels like one big self-imposed slog through the mess I’ve accumulated in my mind. I’ve also found that it can make it more difficult to justify my decisions to others, because they don’t always match up with what I “should” be doing. It’d be a lot easier to keep chasing the image of a perfect person.
But I’m willing to practice. And I’m willing to make mistakes, and to learn. Because at the end of the day, I no longer want to be perfect.
I only want to be a better version of myself, imperfect and grateful and happy.
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