fuck perfect

pomegranate gore

Here’s the problem with perfect; it’s achievable, but not sustainable.
You can do it for a night, a day, an event, maybe a while.
You can starve yourself skinny or primp yourself pretty, or hoover your whole house until it’s entirely fluff-free. It just doesn’t last, and unless you’re an unemployed millionairess without any children, there simply isn’t the time to sustain that shit.

Apologies for all the swearing, but I’ve had some wine, and I’m feeling pretty mad.

Perfect lures you in because you got there once; it seems like all that stands between you and the continual repetition of that success is the time and the effort. You’d be perfect if only you weren’t so lazy. Things would be right if it weren’t for X/Y/Z.

I caught the end of something on Radio 4 the other week; a wealthy English man talking about his mother, about the old upper classes, about their crumbling country homes full of tattered rugs and packs of whippets.
They don’t care about perfect, he said, because when you know the rules inside out, you’re happy to break them.

vscocam pomegranate gore
iPhone blog photos, just to prove how much I’m letting go

As women in particular, we’re peddled the perfect-myth a lot. I’ve had a break from TV, & lately have returned to watching shows online. What struck me and Rory both is the sheer volume of perfectionist bullshittery being pushed at women in TV ads; perfect this, flawless that. Close-ups of women’s faces being revolved slowly on screen, painstakingly airbrushed to remove all trace of the £3.99 orange foundation they’re supposedly touting.
Well I’m not buying it; literally, figuratively – whatever.

Letting go of perfect has been the single most liberating, empowering act of my adult life. I think it helps that I’m always so tired; in the end, I just don’t have the energy to waste on perfect hanging baskets and ironing my sodding bedsheets.
If that works for you, that’s awesome, but please don’t judge my mental faculties or quality of life on how shiny my doorstep & letterbox are. This isn’t 1955, & the Joneses have new, liberal neighbours with a completely radical set of new ideals and values.

Let’s all just be, and enjoy our lives, and leave the hoovering & the shiny-shiny til tomorrow, or perhaps next week.
It’ll never be perfect, anyway.