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In a Perfect World

As I stepped out of my clothes the other day before taking a shower, I caught a glimpse of my newly formed tan line that marked where my tank top rested during my run that day. Normally, such a sighting calls for a day of mourning which includes slathering every inch of my body with sunscreen, donning shirts, pants, and socks that cover every inch of my body, and spending the rest of the day indoors with the curtains closed. Then I berate myself for not having that same sense of urgency on a daily basis when I should wear sunscreen.
My ideal running weather.
I'm a white girl. My skin is pale enough that I can use baby powder to set my makeup. Skin cancer runs in my family along with the blonde hair and blue eyes. I often tell people this when they wonder why I'm sitting at the beach under an umbrella with a double-sized towel wrapped around my long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants. It's a lie, but the truth is embarrassing. The truth is that when I look at my naked body in the mirror, I want to see flawless skin. I want no remnant of a tan line. I want one smooth shade running from my forehead to the tips of my toes. I want perfection.

 This craving for perfection is certainly not limited to my skin obsession. I have an unquenchable thirst for doing everything right the first time, for satisfying everyone around me, and maintaining the ideal that others set for me. There's no middle ground for me. I either have to do it all right all the time, or I have to screw it up as much as possible.
Camera filters are magical!
As I lamented my new tan line the other night, I considered the usual ways to fix it which involve either careful avoidance of the sun or smoothing out the lines with additional tanning time. For the first time in my life, though, as I thought about what I needed to do, I also considered all the other things I would miss out on. My quest for skin perfection takes me out of my life. No beach. No kayaking. No enjoying the breeze on a sunny afternoon. No runs. The tan line that currently graces my shoulders and decolletage is the physical proof that I was outside pounding the pavement, pushing through my aggression, and doing something to improve my health. It was a delightful time with my aging dog who loves being outside with me. It was a moment I can never relive but will live with me forever.

 I wish I could apply this same logic to the other areas of my life where perfectionism strikes a death blow. Instead of seeing my poorly constructed words, mistimed complaints, and emotional outbursts as signs that I messed it all up, perhaps they are really just evidence that I'm engulfed by a passionate romance. The next time I feel tempted to mire in the feeling that I've disappointment my man, perhaps I can see it instead as proof that I'm living and loving and aware of those around me.

 On paper...or in my head..it's a great plan. It's certainly better than the alternative, but old habits die hard. I've been a perfectionist far longer than I've been rational.
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