Before you think me egotistical, hear me out.
For whatever reason perfection has been on my mind a lot lately. Well, to be more specific, the quest for perfection. Perhaps it’s because Julieboo smeared her pizza-covered face all over my favorite mint jeans recently. Perhaps it’s because I’ve suddenly decided I absolutely hate our half bathroom and I want to gut the whole thing and start over. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’m realizing that I may never know how to wear mascara or walk in heels easily. It’s probably all of these (in addition to the giant zit on my cheek from indulging in too much fast food the past few weeks). Whatever it is, I’m just not feeling very pulled together lately.
I am an extremely blessed gal. I know this. I thank God for all I have daily. But it never fails that no matter how much I am loving my life I can always find myself dissatisfied with things in it that aren’t quite “perfect.” Like my mint jeans… the bathroom… the stupid pimple… it’s frighteningly easy to find imperfections in the midst of an otherwise wonderful life. And unfortunately, the never-ending discoveries of these imperfections can cause dissatisfaction to creep in.
Case in point: a much-needed date night is coming up. I spend a day thinking about what to wear, only to realize that despite the fact that my man loves me in heels I just can’t seem to master walking in them. I spend an hour working on my hair, only to realize that I just can’t overcome the crazy cowlick near the top of my head. I spend 10 minutes putting on mascara, only to discover that my eyelashes are clump magnets and I should have probably started applying 10 minutes sooner. I finally get myself pulled together and Jay tells me I look hot. Success! But apparently I only look perfect for as long as I’m standing still. Once I step outside, the heels make my legs wobble, making me look like Julia trying to walk in my shoes. It’s raining and my hair starts to frizz. I feel something tickle my face and inadvertently streak my mascara while rubbing it away. Within 5 minutes all my effort to look “perfect” is no longer visible. Somewhere inside me I’m disappointed, but fortunately our marriage isn’t based on perfection and we had a wonderful time anyway.
But it makes me wonder… who exactly am I trying to be perfect for? I’m confident that it isn’t my husband, my parents, my kids, my friends… I’m pretty sure it’s me. I am the one setting these standards of perfection for myself… I am the one trying to be as wonderful as the other moms… the other wives… the other whoevers. And for what? I can’t honestly say that I enjoy trying to be perfect. Don’t get me wrong, I want to be the best I can be, and I want to look good for my man, be fun for my kids, and have a house I’m proud of. It can be fun to put on a cute dress or craft with my beauties or paint a room a snazzy new color. But if I’m not careful these things can become a source of stress for me instead of those little things in life I’m supposed to enjoy.
And the simple truth is this:
That’s it. That’s all I ever need to remember to make sure that those little things stay fun and don’t stress me out. They don’t define me or my self-worth. I don’t need anyone else to be satisfied with me or make me feel good. My Jesus is satisfied with me. I am fearfully and wonderfully made! Why in the world am I trying to perfect what He already sees as perfection? Of course it’s okay to always strive to be the best me I can be – as long as I make sure that isn’t coming from a place of vanity or pride. I’m going to paint that bathroom, and I’m going to try my best to get that stain out of my jeans. I just need to keep in mind that even if I don’t get the color right or the stain never comes out, my God is pleased with His creation. Me. Exactly the way I am – imperfections and all. He doesn’t care if my bathroom is photo-worthy or if my jeans have spots on them.
Even so, I’m going to master mascara and heels if it kills me. But only because I want to.