I keep reading and hearing about women who suffer because of their perfectionism. They want it all: a great career, motherhood, romance, enlightenment. And they strive to be perfect in all of these areas. They have “perfectionism”. (By the way, the piece linked above called itself a “review”; it was more of a puff piece.)
It’s an intimidating word. You might think it means they are better at all those things than those imperfect beings– I hate to presume, but, men?– who don’t strive for “perfectionism”. And I get the feeling that women love this word, love flogging themselves with it: “Oh, I am such a perfectionist!” Yes you are. You’re almost perfect. Do you have any faults? “Only that I care too much!”
What is perfection here? Let’s not confuse it with achievement. An achievement is building a steam engine out of an old toaster. Perfectionism is getting your wardrobe and make-up just right, making a dinner that you think is perfectly nutritious (I don’t think these women care much about how tasty it is), getting your report done on time and to the accolades of your colleagues, and making your yoga class while fostering a stray dog and marching against GMO’s. There you go: I’m perfect.
And when it all breaks down, and you can’t cope, and you can’t resist those fries, and you yell at your kids– it’s because I try too hard to be perfect. While your husband is enjoying the fries and watching the kids drive around the back yard on the riding lawnmower.