A quest for perfection

If you’re a regular Just Be reader, you may be aware that last week, I made a rather hefty agreement with my husband that I would spend seven days being as imperfect as possible.

While logically I understand the inherit flaws in striving for complete uninterrupted perfection, as a self-confessed perfectionist and control freak I generally spend my days acting as if these don’t apply, which generally causes great stress and random unprovoked outburst at my poor unsuspecting partner. And so, it was in mind of recovering both of our sanities that I agreed to abandon my perfectly controlling ways for one entire week. Here’s how it panned out…

DAY ONE:
In my usual morning routine, I turn the bedroom upside-down in search of a virtuous outfit. Halfway through, with the laundry basket contents emptied all over the floor and clothes sprawled out over the bed, I remind myself that imperfection includes not having to find an outfit that comes out of the wardrobe with a gleaming light around it, and instead throw on a crumpled pair of slacks. Scrambling to reassemble the room back to its anally organised state and make the bed, I’m again forced to restrain myself and instead leave the room in a dishevelled state.

DAY TWO:
I let my husband choose what we order for Thai takeaway. He always wants the stuff I am convinced will taste crap so I am usually in charge when it comes to take out ordering. I’m surprised to taste two new delicious dishes when it arrives…maybe I should let him choose more often?

DAY THREE:
I watch television in dirty tracky-pants and greasy hair as opposed to my usual routine of touching up my hair and makeup from work, popping on a cute apron and cleaning every square inch of the house.

DAY FOUR:
With the dishes now growing mould, my husband reminds me an IMperfectionist would ignore the mess and order take-out instead. I cringe at the thought of not providing a nutritious, home-cooked meal but give in to my laziness and exhaustion and eat pizza in my PJ’s.

DAY FIVE:
I can’t do it any longer!! I arrive home to a house that looks like a bomb hit it and feel anything but relaxed. I retreat to my anally retentive perfectionistic ways and scrub and clean and order and re-order the house before dashing to the mirror to re-do my hair and makeup before hubbie arrives home – I can’t bare the thought of letting him see me with a birds nest for hair and and in dowdy clothes anymore. He arrives home and notices the effort I have gone to, complimenting me on how I look – I know it is against the rules, but I am secretly pleased.

DAY 6 & 7:
The weekend. I am back to full-on perfectionist mode, I return to my usual routine of getting up early to clean the house and perfect my appearance before hubby is awake. I start feeling stressed and snappy again. Determined to beat my stress-head ways, I do the unthinkable and ask for help. My husband happily obliges and does the dishes and three loads of washing while I fix my hair. My mood is elevated and I decide it’s ok not to be the perfect Stepford wife seven days a week…maybe just six. Hey, it’s a compromise!