A woman, I consistently live my life in some aspect of guilt. It starts as soon as I get up in the morning. Why didn’t I get up sooner? I’m already behind. A screen scrolls in my mind prominently displaying all those tasks and responsibilities I have yet to address. I measure my worth not by who I am but by my performance. Speaking of who I am, there’s a lot of work to be done there as well. I’m impatient, prone to speak before I really think, and seem to deal with the same personal struggles over and over.
When I mention my feelings of guilt to my dear husband, it’s as if I’m discussing the green and purple polka dot rash on my arm. He just doesn’t get it, and that’s exactly what he tells me. I think about my life free of guilt; the person I would need to be to make that happen. Well, I would need to be perfect. Of course that’s impossible. It reminds me of that robot from an old science fiction movie that, in response to logical conflict, intones “That does not compute,” over and over until smoke billows out of his circuits and his big aluminum head drops abruptly to the side. (What doesn’t compute is that he’s male. A woman could play that role so much better.)
When I think about it, perfection is boring. None of my funny stories or sense of humor derive from perfection. It’s imperfection that drives what is interesting about us and our lives. I’m convinced that God gave us a sense of humor so that we could deal with our innately imperfect selves. It works for me. Forget the search for perfection; maybe we should be getting to know (and like) our imperfect selves. Maybe we’ll even get more done in the process.