Jumping Off the Perfect Train

Several days ago a writer friend of mine relayed a conversation he’d had over the phone with a mutual friend (another writer).

“Well, nobody’s perfect,” she said.

“Right,” he said.

“Except Tess. She’s perfect.”

I’m sure her assessment was said with some humor, but still, it gave me pause. Is that what she really thinks, I thought. Although she may be the only person in the world to think so, I feel obligated to set her straight on this assessment.

As if some of these flaws are not evident, here are a few. There are more, but this is a blog post not a novel.

I take too many photos of my cats and post them on Facebook. Actually, I post too much of everything on Facebook. I’m one of those people other people make fun of because I over share- what I made in my slow cooker for dinner, what I’m watching on television. And seriously – all those bragging posts about my kids are enough to make anyone want to punch me. Yeah, I’m that person. I get it. Probably half the people I know have unsubscribed to my Facebook feed because of it. I’m sorry, by the way, although you’re probably not reading this because you’re sick of my blog too.

I can defend it, of course. Partly it’s because writers are supposed to have a media presence in order to find readers. This is the reason I subscribed to Facebook in the first place. Four years ago I didn’t even know what it was. So, there’s that. But it’s also because I’m lonely. I work alone and have to be extremely disciplined or I cannot produce the work I need to produce in order to take care of my children. This means I decline lunch invitations and other social outings more than I want to. “I have a deadline,” comes out of my mouth too much. But it is what it is. Between this and the lack of a partner – an actual adult that I would have the privilege to share all the ups and downs, triumphs and trials with, well, he’s nowhere to be found. As a side note, if you have a partner and he or she is coming home to you tonight and you’re going to share a meal and brag or complain to one another about your kids or your work or the state of economy, please take a moment to know how truly blessed you are. Cherish the fact that someone loves you enough to come home, in whatever shape they’re in or you’re in, however battered or blown, they are there with you, right there, in your kitchen. Take it in. Appreciate it. Love them hard.

I feel sorry for myself way too much. I’m ashamed to admit this because there are people with real problems, but it’s the truth. When the kids are gone for weekends with their dad it feels so quiet in my house I sometimes have this sensation that I might be invisible, that I might not even exist or matter to anyone. So I wallow in self-pity. I write stories about lonely women to console myself. I call my mother and try not to cry when I hear her voice. But sometimes I feel too down to do even that, knowing that I will cry if I hear her voice and I don’t want her to know how bad I’m feeling. I have friends. Wonderful friends who would take pity on me if I called them and said, “Hey, can I come over?” But they have lives. Spouses. Families. Plans. So I wallow instead, watching sad movies on Netflix and drinking wine by myself. Does that sound perfect? That’s a big fat no.

I’m scared for the future pretty much 100% of the time. This book business is rocky right now and I don’t know if I’m going to be able to keep doing it and feed and clothe my children. What we did when RIVERSONG came out isn’t working any longer. I spend so much time thinking about how to sell books of late that it distracts me from actually writing them. In fact, the thought of the future is so terrifying that I have come close to panic attacks in the last six months. Just today a writer friend told me how brave I am. I’m not. I’ve just tried hard to make this work and I love it so much that I am afraid it might break me to admit defeat. So I stay here, butt in seat.

I’ll leave you with a few others. I can’t figure out how to use the television remotes. Technology mostly befuddles me. I have no sense of direction. There are two distinct rolls around my middle that no amount of working out will get rid of (I’m pretty sure it’s the wine – again, refer to point 2). Sometimes I yell at my kids. I’m always running about five minutes behind. I’ve never read “Moby Dick”. I hate crafts. I put off mopping the floors until it’s practically time to call the germ police. I never fill my gas tank until the light comes on. I always hit the snooze button. I’ve lost approximately four dozen water bottles at the gym. I take long showers with no regard for the water shortage.

I gave up trying to be perfect when I admitted to myself how unhappy I was in my marriage. I had to let go of my dream of perfect wife, perfect mother, perfect home. In that decision, I let go of my lifelong pursuit of perfection. I have to say, it was like dropping a hundred pound weight. It feels good to let go of all those false expectations. Despite all my flaws and fears and all the sacrifices that came with that decision, I’m better off for it. Now I just live authentically. If you don’t like me, too bad. If you do, great. I am what I am: crazy cat lady, loving but imperfect mother, absentminded writer in residence, hopeful romantic prone to sadness.

Maybe this year, you could let yourself off the perfect train too? I’ll still love you. So will everyone else who matters. Because perfect or not, we will be there for you no matter what. I know because I’ve been there.