Essays

The cost of perfection

I’m not perfect.

Once you start a post with the title “The cost of perfection”, I think it obvious that you need to lead with not being perfect.

The truth is no one is perfect. We know that, right? That is also obvious, isn’t it?

Except, it isn’t. Because while all of us are not perfect, you know what we are? Human. And humans are fallible. We are fallible, we can be weak, we can believe too much of ourselves even as we believe too little.

We easily slip into this place where we think other people are perfect for things as surface as:

  • They dress themselves well: fashionably, neatly, without care for propriety or shame – whatever
  • They have nice things: clothing, cars, sneakers, watches, jewelry, furniture
  • They are beautiful: in shape, in hair, in form, in teeth, in shoulders-to-hip ratio, in hips-to-ankle ratio
  • They are smart: big words, incisive words, the urban accent (you want), the city accent (you desire)

Et cetera, et cetera.

We are human and we so easily forget that other humans that we meet are human, too. So, we put them on pedestals. We assume things about them that are not true; we accord them things that are not their due.

We treat them like gods as we treat ourselves less than–

I’m not perfect. It sounds egotistical for me to continue that sentence, but I will, because I think it is an important thing to say, because I have been, I do live, on both sides of that coin–

I’m not perfect and I am damn tired of people that I meet thinking that I am because of things that are surface. Things that are just things, not values or ideas or thoughts or feelings that, no, they are things that are just things, and I am tired of people that I meet according me positions (that neither have I earned nor are they real) or attitudes (that I do not possess and never will) or just distance (that I never want to take from them or even can).

I’m not perfect and I’m tired of being treated like I am. I’m not. No one is and that is the beautiful thing, and if you must know, also the beautiful place.

When you stop being perfect, you get to be real. If you’re not perfect, you get to make mistakes. You get to laugh at yourself, and others, you get to play and learn and to dance and to drink a little too much and to be a little too silly…

If you’re not perfect, you’re real. I want people to treat me like I’m real because that’s the place I love to inhabit.

Isn’t that the place you love, too? I do. I really do.

Don’t you?

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