My journey has dressed perfection in many mystic cloaks. It once looked like crisp crayon lines and strategic shading in an elementary coloring book. Perfection determined if the picture hung honorably on the fridge or laid discarded by the waste basket.
Perfection was reflected in my high school best friend. She sang in the church choir, didn’t talk back to her parents and caught the Holy Ghost at bible camp with no coaching; while I couldn’t forge a tear to prove I knew Him.
Perfection was in the grade I didn’t get on my senior paper at the University of Minnesota. It was in the L.A. job I didn’t land after graduation and in the sorority I never joined. It was in the big brown eyes and the curls of the baby boy my first thought-it-was-love had without me. In fact, he’s beautiful — perfection might still reside there.
Today, perfection appears on my phone screen daily: filtered, beat, slaying and laid for the gods. It looks like kissing couples as I scroll from an empty bed, fashion icons on magazines as I stand in the clearance aisle and travel photos I emulate when I take an angled picture of the plane wing on the flight home…again. It looks like coke bottle bodies, gravity defying breasts and waist to ass ratios that make me ask Jesus some very personal questions. It’s yoga poses I can’t bend far enough for, an unrealistic bank account balance, and simple dances I can not get down. Fuck you, Milly Rock.
At every step of my path, perfection has been a recognized unattainable. It took on new definitions at each stage. I should have known by the inconsistency that perfection was never meant for me — and that is a lesson I learn everyday.
A lesson that allows me to see what I missed, what I took for granted but doesn’t hold me there to dwell in it. It’s a lesson that is renewed constantly in grace, mercy and forever love.
Perfect means being whole anyways. Always.
– Carla Soto. Branding and PR. Writer. Perfection.