I don’t know where I first got the message that perfection is a goal. Somehow, I grew up trying to achieve it. Trying to get A’s in school to please my dad, trying to look like a movie star to please the boys. Trying and trying.
But even when I got an A, my father asked about my other grades. And when my hair curled just right there was a pimple on my chin. You’d think I’d figure out that perfection was impossible but instead I just tried harder.
Once or twice, everything came together. Many years ago I was visiting a boyfriend in California and we were going to a party at the home of some famous Hollywood person. On that evening, I managed to assemble just the right hair and skin and dress.
“This is it,” I thought. “I’m here.” But as I was stepping down into the host’s sunken living room, I stumbled and fell flat on my rear end. A bruise the size and color of an eggplant would be the result. Along with the reminder about perfection. It’s not only an impossible goal; it’s the wrong goal. A lesson I’ve been learning—like all the others—imperfectly.