Perfection

I want to be the perfect woman. I majored in woman’s studies in undergrad so I know that all the silly mainstream magazines I read are full of airbrushed models and that if I lost the 35 pounds I want to lose I’d probably stop having periods and that every person on Earth has pores and that I will never have naturally flippy hair and long curly eyelashes. But every day I kill myself a little bit striving for a perfection that doesn’t exist. Every calorie is guilt, I have a $200 face scrubber, about 10 exercises videos I don’t watch, an appointment next week to get a head full of weave, a bathroom full of make up, a closet full of clothes, shoes, accessories. I consider myself “low maintenance,” and I really feel like I am. It’s sick, but I feel normal. In the grand scheme of perfection questing, I am small scale. I know it’s not real. I can leave the house without being “done up” but only sometimes.

At any one point in time I am doing at least three full time jobs. I have a kid. I am a full time grad student. I work. I get perfect grades. I have a successful zine. I refuse to be half assed. My son wore cloth diapers and then organic recyclable diapers. I cried when I couldn’t afford them anymore and had to buy generics. He was breastfed for over 3 years, I made his baby food, I stayed home with him for 6 months, carrying him in the baby sling, totally losing myself in this unrealistic idea of perfect motherhood. Grad school requires a “B” or better in everything or you essentially fail. A “B” is still good, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just not a perfect “A” and when I got one I bawled to my therapist, “that stupid bitch gave me a B”. I was devastated. Once I finish writing my zine I sit with it, afraid to put it out, for at least a month. I have to make it perfect. I disappoint myself all the time. It’s not perfect. I want to quit making it.

A lot of women have this crazy fucked up idea in their head that life is a competition and whoever is the prettiest, skinniest, best cook, best dressed, best writer, best mother, best dick sucker, whatever, wins. And winning is so much better than losing, right? And we are smart, we know all of this is fucked up and a total waste of time, but we will sit there getting our pubes waxed into the shape of a heart or only eat carrots for a week or spend five hours in a beauty salon getting someone else’s hair braided into our own anyway. I have a good body, nice boobs, cute butt, pretty round face, happy eyes, and this guy called me “thick” and I wanted to kill him. I went hysterical. Try giving a girl a compliment, she’ll think you’re a spy or totally downplay herself. I hardly ever hear “thanks”. I am learning how to say it, realizing that yes, what this person is saying is in fact true. I am good at my job. Thank you.

The thing about perfection is that it still matters to women. Men can be fat and balding and old and they are still rewarded with money, raises, younger women, respect. If a woman has one wrinkle, gets pregnant, gains 10lbs, has a flat chest, nappy hair, people notice. Everything is at stake; her career, her sanity, her marriage, her finances, her opportunity for advancement, etc. They circle actresses fat legs in magazines, it's on the news; I am not even kidding. So yeah, striving for perfection is not all that unreasonable. Our livelihoods depend on it sometimes. We need the money, we still don't make as much as men.

People have made billions of dollars convincing women that they are not enough. If we knew the truth, that we are beautiful, that our bodies and our faces and our bellies are enough, that we are smart, that we are good drivers, that we are good mothers, that our nappy hair is lovely, that our pubes can grow out, that we are good at math, that we can direct movies, that we can lead companies, that our too big or too small or too saggy tits were actually “just right”, what would happen? How much money would we save? How many more friends would we have? How much happier would we be? I can’t even imagine such perfection…