I have a confession to make. I always act like I don’t judge people. I pretend to be really laid back and that I don’t care how other people live their lives, raise their kids or write their books. But there is one thing that’s a deal breaker for me. One fatal flaw that I will never be able to overlook: the perfectionist.
Now, I’m not talking about the people that are hard on themselves or have high expectations for all of the things they do in day-to-day life. Believe me, I’m right there with you. I want to be the best wife, mother, writer, and woman that I can possibly be.
No, I’m talking about the infuriating people that are hell bent on making it appear as though their life is sheer perfection. They’re the mothers that judge you for not making your own baby food from scratch, the women who slowly look you up and down to assess your outfit, your approximate weight and height and whether or not you’ve been vigilant with your visits the gym over the past week. They’re the women who never have a bad day, never fight with their husbands and ALWAYS wake up smiling. Their kids have never watched any television and they probably haven’t had a white carb in the past year. They’re fake and I can put up with a lot of things in friends, but fake isn’t one of them.
I don’t want to hear about how perfect your kids are or how loving your husband is. I want to hear about the days when your son pukes in your face and you wind up sneaking a cigarette in your back yard. I want to hear about the mornings that you’re so tired that you turn on the movie Cars to entertain your kids while you catch an extra hour and 43 minutes of sleep on the couch. I want to hear about the times when your husband comes home from work and has the nerve to ask why dinner isn’t ready and the house is a disaster.
Perfect is boring. Perfect is overrated. Perfect is a waste of time. I prefer reality, thank you very much.