I had my nails manicured last weekend. They looked beautiful – the perfect metallicy pink for my skin tone. The paint started chipping yesterday. I found myself liking it even better. They were too perfect before. I like the chipped imperfection.
I mentioned before that I strive for perfection. But the more I think about it, the more I don’t. I don’t want to live on perfect Queen Anne or perfect Bellevue. Especially not Bellevue – communities designed to be perfect make me sad. Where’s the character? Don’t you just feel like people there must be hiding something? Or feeling emotionally unfulfilled? Give me gritty Greenwood with it’s sketchy homes, quirky establishments and residents and that questionable dry cleaner on 90th that has three “Open” signs out front, yet I still have my doubts any day. It’s not all … sanitized and picturesque, but it is genuine. We unapologetically love our independent coffee shops and pubs. We don’t think we’re better than anyone else and we don’t think we’re worse off either. Come visit, or don’t. Doesn’t matter to us.
A friend told me the other day she’s not looking for a perfect princess story life. I agree with her wholeheartedly. Who wants to live in a Disney movies? That’s fiction. Plus, if you have the perfect job, home, relationship, family, friends and hobbies, what’s there to strive for? What do you look forward to? You have no where to go but down.
Sure, I have my dreams and fantasies. I like to make plans and set goals. But I firmly believe the bumper sticker wisdom that life happens when you’re busy making other plans. And I often find myself thinking, “real life is so much better than what I planned.”
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.