I've decided that I don't want to be perfect anymore. I am now unperfect.
It fits the new me. I'm tired of believing that I have to have a totally clean house with everything in its place. I'm weary of feeling that if I don't go out with makeup or groomed hair, that I won't meet the man of my dreams. Or anyone else for that matter.
I tested the theory today. My hair is now cut very short -- not sure I like it, but that's a holdover from my perfection obsession -- and I didn't comb it before I left for errands. While I was buying cat food, the cashier kept giving me strange looks -- not in my eyes, over my head. When I got back in my car I looked at my hair and saw it was sprouting up every which way.
Maybe I should rethink this new me.
Or maybe not. It's the wound of imperfection that women carry, and I see it everywhere, no matter our age. We are socialized to believe that if we are perfect, then the perfect man will love us. If we are nice, sweet, nurturing, obedient -- in short, the perfect appliance -- that the perfect man will hang around doting on us forever.
Well girlfriend, ain't so, are it. Giving the man everything he wants, grooming for him, getting buffed and thin for him, being available to him -- society's definition of perfection? -- just gives him what he wants and leaves us with the crumbs.
Nope, I don't want crumbs anymore. I want pebbles. Yes -- pebbles. One species of Antarctic penguin has it down, dude: The male has to bring rare pebbles to the female so that she can build her nest. In one version, I have heard that the guy builds monuments to her with these pebbles. If he gives her enough of what she wants, she will give him what he wants.
The relationship is really on her terms, with her rules. She is the dominant.
Pebbles. That's the ticket.
That means that we know what we want, we know we deserve to be courted and pleased, and that there are plenty more fish in the sea.
Remind me about this the next time I even deign to settle for crumbs.