I’m very clear on the fact that I am not perfect. My dad used to say, I was perfectly imperfect, which is a term I started to hear a lot.
I remember thinking – while I feel like I know what this means and should know what this means… maybe I really don’t. I always figured he meant my crooked smile was cute and ‘imperfectly perfect’ because of it’s lack of symmetry. I looked at only the physical stuff.
But, really what it meant was that he loved everything about me. Even the perfectly annoying parts – which by the way, I have lots of. I should, but I didn’t quite grasp that term into my life until later on. I actually assumed that I should probably be ‘perfect’ for every part of my life – whether it was work or play or love. This burden was a heavy one until I decided to embrace the imperfect.
So, now I can be late, I can be forgetful and I can make mistakes. I can be imperfectly funny, smart, creative and sexy.
Because being perfect gets boring and life is forever proving to be perfectly imperfect.