Look, don’t get me wrong, a perfect life would have its advantages: cars would never break down, your skin would never break out and your favourite shoes would never wear out. You would always have change for the parking meter, you would never forget your wedding anniversary and when you asked for 200 grams of Primo mild salami, the deli girl would get it right the first time, every time.
But let’s face it, human perfection, apart from being completely unattainable would be dead boring. If my life was perfect, there’d be no point getting out of bed.
Perfection has no character. It is the human equivalent of dark denim that stays dark forever. No designed-to-fade, no pre-fab holes, not even any worn out hems from where they dragged under your sneakers. There is no scope for perfection to wear in to your unique shape. Perfection is bland one-size-fits-all, off-the-rack uniformity.
Perfection has no entertainment value. Imagine having a Monday morning tea room chat that went like this: ‘The curry night was flawless, my outfit was immaculate, I did every speck of housework faultlessly and enjoyed every moment of it, and I had exactly the right amount of sleep.’ Your colleagues would either puke or fall asleep. Describing flopped kofka, stapled hemlines, hiding the mess in the geek cave and sleep deprivation because of the neighbours’ three a.m. domestic are much more engaging. It’s our screw ups that make us endearing – and real.
Perfection is no fun. Without imperfection, there’d be no rom coms or sitcoms, no email funnies and no stirring up your mates. Many of these are based on error and misjudgment. The funniest ones are the ones we identify with. We can really imagine ourselves unknowingly wiping our girly bits with a glittery washcloth on the way to the gynaecologist. It’s the ‘OMG, that could have been me’ factor that really makes these stories rock.
Perfection is monotonous. What would you strive for in life if you were perfect? There’d be no room for phrases like ‘personal best’, ‘medal for bravery’ or even 'Darwin awards'. There’d be no more trying to hone your muscles – you’d already be built. There’d be no more experimenting with hair colours – your hair would be exactly the right shade already. There’d be no more messing with recipes – your soufflés would work first time. Everyone would have a McMansion, eight percent body fat, a Lamborghini and a limitless supply of money. And it would all be meaningless – common as mud. In short, there’d be no bigger/better/faster/more anything.
Perfection is drab. Imagine living without amazement. You’d see a brilliant Olympic athletic performance, read a breathtaking poem or enjoy a mind blowing orgasm and go ‘oh, yeah’. Perfection would make miracles ho-hum.
Perfection is plastic. Freudian slips are natural. Text templates are not. Wormy apples are natural. Multivitamins are not. Body hair is natural. Silicon implants are not. Hey, I like an eyebrow wax as much as the next girl but sometimes we become so focused on some elusive idea of perfection that we forget we’re humans in the real world, not Barbies in pink townhouses. It’s bumps and freckles and receding hairlines that make us unique and special. Every scar on your body has a story attached to it. And every story is a testament to your fallibility.
Barbara Bloom says: ‘When the Japanese mend broken objects, they aggrandize the damage by filling the cracks with gold. They believe that when something's suffered damage and has a history it becomes more beautiful.’
Take a leaf out of her book. Don’t think of your imperfection as being faulty, broken or incomplete full stop. Think of your imperfection as being faulty, broken or incomplete – and lovin’ it because imperfect is exactly as you should be.
Appreciate the quirky, the wonky, and the cockeyed. Love that teddy with all its fur sucked off. Embrace that cardigan with the missing button, delight in that odd shaped bowl you made in Prep and, most of all, love your hairy toes.
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