Confessions of an Imperfectionist

Right now, as you read this, I have a pimple the size of Texas hanging out on my cheek, probably because I ate an entire block of sharp cheddar cheese in a 48 hour period.

I still love myself.

Right now, I am writing this instead of getting dressed, hair wet, breath smelling like coffee and morning halitosis, because I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’m scribbling it on the back of a receipt, because I forgot to charge my computer last night, and because I can’t find my notebook.

I still love myself.

Right now, I’m 30, and I live in my friends’ spare room, because I am too much of a location commitment-phobe to sign a lease, because I’m terrified even one long term decision might result in losing my freedom, and because I’m afraid if I stay in one place too long I might become bored… or even worse, boring. I’m terrified of wasting even one moment on ordinary, because I’m afraid of having regrets, and that fear often cripples my ability to create a life for myself.

I still love myself.

Right now, I am realizing I have totally failed at least half of my New Years resolutions, especially the one about posting weekly. I’ve only posted once not because I don’t write daily, but because nothing I ever write feels good enough, and I’m afraid it’s crap. For the same reason, I have barely written a third of my fifteen page research paper that is due next week, because I’m bad at research papers, and when I’m afraid of failing, I stop trying.

I still love myself.

The point of this whole spiel being- the loveable part of me, and of you, isn’t conditional. It isn’t based on what I do, or how I act, or what I accomplish, nor is it for you. It’s based on showing up, gloriously imperfect, and letting our souls hang out.

And, if you read this and wonder, did she write this for ME?

Yes, yes I did. I wrote this for you, you incredible, imperfect, real human.

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