Thursday 14 August 2014


I hate the word ‘perfect.’ In fact, I not only hate it, I think it wreaks havoc on many levels and that disturbs me. I know, I’m feeling extreme today so let’s blame my cold medicine. A celebrity spoke out recently saying that in hindsight, her quest for perfection throughout her life has turned out to not only be detrimental to her psyche, but was a total waste of time (I’m paraphrasing, as she’s much more obnoxiously eloquent). In short, she realized there was no such thing and is happy to put an end to the exhausting quest for the pot of perfect. (I wonder how much that cost in therapy)

Here is the thing, aside from snowflakes, raindrops, a child’s laugh, and the occasional espresso done right after a sleepless night, there is nothing on this planet that is actually perfect. It’s a hyperbolic, idealistic, inflated pipedream of a word that we throw around to set ourselves up for failure. He was the perfect guy (haaaaa), we had the perfect date, she has the perfect body, they had the perfect life. It’s a word thrown around in a wink-wink fashion that for most is an attempt at the ultimate compliment (unless its dripping with sarcasm of course). Which don’t get me wrong, telling your husband you had the most perfect weekend is certainly a sweet thing to do, but from a linguistic/semantic point of view - which you know us bloggers, we love to hang our hats on semantics - it’s not entirely accurate.

In truth, the use of the word perfect is pure exaggeration; a hope, a wish, a descriptive pinnacle to shut out all the naysayers and doubters in the world. 'Everything is perfect damn it, what do you say to that?'  Let’s take the unrelenting quest of the beauty industry to make us drones think we have to be ‘perfect.’ Every ad on television is telling us how we can have the perfect life. Be it the right car, the right hair products, the right make-up, the right holiday. Whatever they’re selling the message is clear, it will help you on your way to looking (let’s keep in mind, it’s not about feeling; they could give a toss how we feel) like the picture perfect person in the advertisement. This is where, from my standpoint, things can get dangerous. Some little fourteen-year-old girl on the quest for the ‘perfect’ body is measuring herself up to some unrealistic, unattainable benchmark, when in truth, her perfection is staring right back at her in the bedroom mirror. People kill themselves to achieve something and wonder why the journey is so damn painful and the destination is NEVER reached - ahem, cause it doesn't exist.

Hence, from where I stand, the word perfect should always be followed by a caveat (I’m going to write Webster’s Dictionary about this). He’s the perfect guy, for you (for me, we'd be divorced in 10 minutes). She has the perfect legs to a guy who likes long legs (thankfully my husband likes us diminutive types); their marriage is perfect…on Facebook (many are guilty of this one). Her children are perfect…aside from that little petty theft blemish on their record. You get the idea.

None of us are perfect. The human condition is inherently not perfect. The idea of perfect is something we hang on the wall to look at and strive for in some mythological way. Come on, Humans! Keep waking up in the morning and striving for perfect, it means you’re not dead yet!

In simple terms, perfect is an illusion unless defined by oneself; so let’s own this one, shall we. So yes, I’m perfect. I’m perfectly flawed and perfectly short and perfectly vivacious (after my morning coffee) and perfectly aware that I’m far from perfect. And you know what, I’m perfectly fine with that.

Copyright © 2014 Anthea Anka - Delighted And Disturbed