Perfection.
How would you define perfection?That perfect hair day when suddenly you know exactly who you are because your hair falls in the right spot. That perfect day of planning where everything lines up and you have just enough time to tinker with the old bike without upsetting your wife. That joyous woman who exclaims radiance, juggling roles—seamlessly.That day on the beach when it’s warm enough to feel the rays beaming onto your winter glow, but the wind sweeps away the bead of sweat just in time. That one time when your golf swing suddenly mirrors that of the pros and that one little white ball in that one little hole doesn’t seem like an impossible task.Perfection, though a word that begs for flawlessness, seems to all come from instances of (usually) utter imperfection.Your hair must be a frizzy mess in order to experience that day of beauty. Your days must be cluttered and jam-packed and stressful enough to make your wife scream, otherwise you won’t get that day where busyness just sprints out of your planner. You must have encountered other women with bags under their eyes and bills and permission slips up to their eyeballs to recognize a woman bouncing with pure joy.You must have mustered through a scorching hot day on the beach when you convince yourself that losing ten pounds in sweat feels really good, especially the sunscreen burning your eyes and the sand in every crevice of your body. And you must have hit 107,000 golf balls with the wrong technique—and broken a club in frustration—just to get to the day when you really are Tiger Woods.I’d say perfection comes from a whole mess of imperfection. I’d say perfection looks like a lot of bad hair days, stressful times, and weak golf swings all adding up to the one hope of perfection. I’d say perfection feels painful so that you can have the chance to experience a day of feeling wonderful. It looks a lot like holding on and hoping for even an ounce of a miracle. It looks a lot like believing in what we can’t quite see.How would you define perfection?