Picture Perfect

Every now and then, I’ll be scanning the TV channel menu and come across a Lifetime movie title that makes me laugh.  (And then makes me sad because I realized I’ve watched that movie – multiple times!)

Here are some of my favorite titles…ignore the fact that most of them star Tori Spelling:

• Mother, May I Sleep with Danger?
• Co-Ed Call Girl
• A Job to Kill For
• Death of a Cheerleader
• The Babysitters Seduction
• Crimes of Passion: She Woke Up Pregnant
• Baby Monitor: Sounds of Fear
• My Stepson, My Lover
• A Little Thing Called Murder
• And Then There Was One

This got me to thinking, what would the title of my Lifetime movie be called?

• The Faces of Evil: The Kris Kringle Story
• She Had Two Lovers: Ben & Jerry
• She Woke Up Pissed Off
• A Little Thing Called Zoloft
• And Then There Was One

But then it hit me.  My title would be none of those!  The title of my Lifetime Movie would be…drumroll, please…

Dying To Be Perfect

I’m pretty sure there is already a Lifetime movie that bares this name.  It’s more than likely about a teen suffering from bulimia and/or anorexia.  However, since I obviously have neither of those problems, my movie would be about my longsuffering battle with perfectionism.  Because believe it or not, perfectionism kills!  Okay, maybe it doesn’t kill, but it sure can turn someone bat-shit crazy.

Nobody’s perfect.  I realize this.  In fact, I am so far from perfect, I should reside in another galaxy.  Yet, even though I know I am an extremely flawed individual, I still feel like I need to live up to this “perfect person” and hide who I truly am…a bat-shit crazy hot mess.

Case in point, let me tell you about my day yesterday, which, for me, was quite typical.  After oversleeping and then finally getting out of bed only to step directly in cat vomit, (at least, I hope that’s what it was), I try on several outfits, vetoing most of them because I either hate how I look or can’t button my pants.  After burning my finger with my flat iron, in the exact same location I sliced myself with an exacto knife the day before, (no pun intended), I leave the house for work, taking out my side-view mirror as I pull my car out of the garage.  After dropping my breakfast burrito on the ground, and eating it anyway, (five second rule), I drop the remainder of the burrito’s innards on my white blouse and spend the rest of the day smelling like spinach and feta.  After eight hours of complaints and rejections at work, I end my day being body-shamed by my trainer…a woman I pay (a lot) of money to to make me feel better about myself.

And that, my friends, is just a typical Monday.

Other flawed behavior I must plead guilty to:

1. Sometimes I wait too long to clean the litter box. I have two cats, people…with human-sized waste!
2. I don’t always wash my sheets after a week.
3. I let dishes sit in my dishwasher for days, and I don’t rinse them before putting them in, or at least, I don’t rinse them well. Who am I kidding…I don’t rinse them at all.
4. Some nights I skip washing my face solely for the reason that I’m too lazy. I also don’t routinely clean my makeup brushes.  God only knows the filth I smear on my face on a daily basis.
5. I don’t exfoliate when I’m supposed to. Or wax. Or pluck.  Or do any of those girly things I’m supposed to do to stay pretty.  And I’ve got hair growing out of some weird-ass places.  Thank you, forty!
6. I can eat a full package of any salty snack you put in front of me – in one sitting – family-size. I can also clean off a pint of ice cream in the same amount of time it takes to watch half an episode of Dateline.  I also have no tolerance of salty or sweet, meaning I can eat large quantities of anything without feeling or getting sick.  (With the exception of Candy Corn…but that doesn’t stop me.)
7. I have cankles. Not entirely my fault, but I consider that a flaw.
8. My thighs touch, which is not usual. However, this will occasionally cause strange noises as they rub together when I walk in denim.
9. My stomach growls at inopportune times.
10. Speaking of the lower region, I have a beer belly…and I don’t even drink beer! Not even root beer.  Okay, sometimes I drink beer, but not enough to construct a gut!  Could it be the sweet n salty treats?  Nah.

A sexy and domestic goddess I am not.  Two more flaws to add to the list.
And let us not forget:  I’m over forty, not married and childless – the three BIGGEST female flaws in the whole wide world.

So, what exactly qualifies as perfection?

Perfection is the condition, state, or quality of being free from all flaws or defects.

I’ve already concluded that I am deeply flawed and defective.  No Dateline mystery needed to solve that one!  Therefore, why am I constantly trying to be perfect?  Seriously, what’s the deal?!?!  I’m trying to respond to a question that I already know the answer to.  And I don’t think I’m pulling the wool over anyone’s eyes.  When I drop a breakfast burrito on my shirt, by golly, someone is there to witness it!

I hate to blame society…again.  But where else are these unrealistic ideals coming from…other than my twisted, bat-shit crazy, hot mess head?  (I also blame you too, Kim Kardashian!)

Because of the ridiculous expectations thrown into the universe, I actually pay people to help me exercise and lose weight.  I’ve gained four pounds since I started.

I’ve been given diet plans with the secrets to becoming lean and mean.  The plans consist of grains, roughage and egg whites.  Here’s another secret…I am not a rabbit.

I’ve started working out with weights to build muscle and become toned.  Since I’ve started this, I’ve gone up two pant sizes and still get winded every time I take the stairs.  Any stairs.  Could only be one.

I’ve also tried helping myself mentally, by practicing some much needed self-care.

The last massage I had I was told I have too much fluid in my legs.  The last facial I had I was told my skin was way too dry.  If only I could stand on my head and let the fluid from my legs flow into my face.

I had a pedicure where I was told that my legs were not only too big, but two different sizes.  The pedicurist just couldn’t believe my abnormality and kept telling me I was “so very big on bottom yet so very small on top.”  That observation is permanently etched in my brain.

Again, I pay these people!

All this self-care crap has made me more agitated than usual.  (And that’s saying a lot.)  I mean, who am I kidding?  And who am I trying to impress?  Why am I trying so hard to hide that fact that I am who I am?  Will I ever be able to relax and accept me for me?

Currently, all signs point to doubtful.

I am hard on myself for how I look, how I act, what I do, who I am, and who I am not.

Will the madness ever end???  And is it me, or did that sound like a line out of Dr. Seuss?

I was recently approached by two lovely young ladies who head up a group called the Walnut Creek Socialites.  (Shout out to @danethadoe and @shalini.srivastava!)  The Socialites are a social community of bloggers and tastemakers who love to promote fashion, fitness and fun, with the mission to help women increase both their self and net-worth.

After a first meeting regarding my place of business, the ladies actually took an interest in my personal blog and invited me to be their first Woman to Watch, a special spotlight section that will be featured on the Walnut Creek Socialites website later this month.  Yes, they invited me to a princess-themed photoshoot featuring…well, me.

Although I was absolutely honored and flattered that these two drop-dead gorgeous, intelligent, impressive women wanted to feature this age appropriate princess and her Forty Tales on their supercool platform, it also set off a plethora of insecurity and anxiety from within that caused me to become bat-shit crazier than usual.

The idea of having my picture taken stressed me to the core.  I am not photogenic and in addition to that, people were going to see ALL my flaws, frozen in time.  My chunky legs.  My bulky arms.  My gray-burn hair.  My big eye/small eye.  My awkward smile.  It was all going to be there, for everyone to see.  There was no place to hide!   And oh, how I love to hide!

After the purchase (and return) of many dresses, I ended up selecting two I already had in my closet.  (Go figure.)  The first was a fun Kate Spade New York dress I had bought on Black Friday and never worn, (mainly because it was too tight).  The second was a flowy and flirty Jennifer Lopez dress I got at Kohl’s for like forty bucks.  I thought both dresses told the story I wanted people to know when they look at me, which is that I am a combo of Kate Spade’s class, and J Lo’s ass.

I then set up appointments at Drybar for a blowout, Sephora for a mini makeover, and Apres Soleil Tans to airbrush a “natural” glow on my arms and legs.

After I did all that, I looked in the mirror and…drumroll please…I still didn’t like what I saw. (Insert sad face here.)

I looked better but, I didn’t look perfect.  Unfortunately, I still looked like myself, and there was no amount of hairspray, eyeliner or bronzer that could cover that up.

But that’s just it, if I were perfect, I wouldn’t be myself.  I’d be someone completely different and, more than likely, someone who was not human.

If I were perfect, I wouldn’t be unique, and I might not have my awesome sense of humor.  Or the same group of wonderful friends.  Or anything to write about in this very blog.

Therefore, I’ve come to realize, and possibly the name of my Lifetime movie sequel is:

Perfectionism Is Overrated

I know this.  I’ve always known this.  Yet, it appears I would rather drive myself bat-shit crazy than accept myself for who I am, as I am.

This totally goes against what Forty Tales is all about.  After all, one of my first blog posts describes my epiphany of realizing that to rescue one’s self is to accept one’s self.  I haven’t been doing this.  It’s not that I don’t believe this to be true – it absolutely is!  I just tend to be extra hard on myself and refuse to accept myself for being anything less than perfect.

Apparently, it’s another one of my flaws.

SPOILER ALERT:  I survived the photoshoot, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t break the camera lens.  I also survived standing between two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in real life.  Thank god I was wearing something subdued and understated as not to draw attention to myself.  (Hello, big, fat polka dots and silver tiara!)  

They say with age comes wisdom. I think this is accurate. I do feel a little wiser with each blog post I write. I also feel a little more confident.

I’m never going to be someone I’m not.

I’m never going to be perfect.

All I can be is myself.

And there is no better time than the present to learn to start loving myself for who I am, as I am.

Even if it’s an over forty, unmarried, childless, funny, clumsy, age appropriate princess with dirty dishes, dirty sheets, healthy cats, uneven body parts, bloated cankles and thunder thighs that make loud chafing noises when squeezed in denim.

And she lived imperfectly, bat-shit crazily, and hopefully ever after.