Perfection, it occurs to me, is the silent murdered of happiness. And I'm guessing I'm not the first to experience that. If you saw my life, you probably wouldn't think I strive much for perfection - my hair is frequently long past its cut-date. I'm perpetually 10-30 pounds overweight. I often have wrinkled and/or spotted clothes on (they could be freshly laundered, and I'd still manage to get something on them by the time I get to work). Try as I might, my home is never quite clean. And as for the stuff that really matters - my relationships - well, honestly, it's probably a good thing I have other things to distract me from how imperfect I am in relation to the people I really love.
I had a little (okay, not that little) melt-down last night. And for the life of me, I couldn't REALLY articulate what it was about. I was tired. Am tired. And behind with work. Unpacking in our fabulous new home seems to be taking forever, though in reality we've only been there 9 days. I was making dinner & doing laundry & dreading working more in the evening and the weight of the spare room full of boxes was weighing on me, and I was texting with BB2 trying to support him and BLAMMO. Sniffles turned to tears. Weeping turned to snot-covered everything. Poor STG was left wondering whether to hold me or leave me alone. He wisely did some of each.
It doesn't happen that often, contrary to popular belief. I'm actually a fairly tough cookie. But every once in a while the weight of my expectations shatters me - lots of expectation I have of other people, although those are merely feathers compared to the Sisyphean expectations I have of myself. It's never reality that gets me - it's always looking for what I think I should be/do/have rather than celebrating how rich my life is and acknowledging myself.
It's maddening, in both senses of the word. The truth is though, I've always thought there was some beauty in brokenness: in decay and the rebirth it inevitably leads to, or in the way fractured glass reflects and refracts the light. I've often thought it'd make a good photography project, if I was talented enough with a camera. Alas, another imperfection.
For now my wearing away and refinement shows in my life instead of in pixels. And I hope that the end result of the process is similar - that I'm being refined rather than worn down. That the editor in me will recognize that sometimes what you remove makes the rest that much more beautiful.