The Impermanence of Perfect
By Laura Mills
No fingerprints smear the mirrors; no lumps wrinkle the bed. No lint litters the carpet. The laundry, dishes, and toys are put away. I can even navigate my way through the garage without stepping on anything. This place is pretty near perfect—but I must admit, perfection unsettles me.
I had to impress if I hoped to sell my house. Prospective buyers want to see the counters, floors and other features clearly; they want to be able to picture their own belongings, not someone else’s dirty socks or half-dressed dolls, in the nooks and crannies. And I get that, completely. As a buyer myself, when I’ve looked at prospective homes I’ve wanted the same thing.
But near-perfect is more than just hard—it’s RIDICULOUSLY hard. Time and effort achieve an acute moment of it. But then maintaining it is another feat, one that requires constant vigilance. It’s so, so easy to slide from near-perfect toward non-perfect again. The minute the cat misses the litter box, or I forget to straighten the towel, or my daughter spills her cereal…. My attention to one incident allows other incidents to occur, and before long, I’m back to needing more time and effort to rise to near-perfect again.
Which is why, I think, I’ve realized I prefer non-perfect. It’s comfortable, even cozy. Most importantly it’s real. It’s my everyday, on the clock, up-and-down life. Near-perfect is okay for selling a home and buying a new one, but when it comes to present moments—even the messiest and most chaotic ones—non-perfect is perfectly beautiful.