The Ache for Perfection

Something I’ve really been working on lately is not being so critical of myself. As women I feel like we are just trained, wired, or both, to give ourselves such scrutiny. We are inundated with images of the ideal woman in magazines, movies, television and too often we forget how much airbrushing, makeup and lighting go toward achieving that perfection. The things I notice about myself that I don’t like, maybe my fair skin (I just plain don’t tan, it’s not in my DNA), or a pesky blemish, are the kind of things I would NEVER think about someone else. Why are we so easily caught up in tiny imperfections that no one else will even notice?

The ache for perfection is so consuming sometimes: be the perfect friend, coworker, girlfriend, mom. Have the perfect hair, clothes, skin. Of course we’re exhausted from constantly thinking, “I wish I was a little more fit/pretty/graceful/intelligent.” I want to try out a new mantra: “Today I will be a little more me.”