I have become a firm believer that perfection is a myth. It was created by people like Martha Stewart and June Cleaver to make us females believe that a clean house/kids/husband/life is the sign of a woman who really has her act together. I'm calling BULLSHIT on that theory. The women I know who buy into this load of crap are downright scary!!
I'm getting used to being scattered all the time. My dining room table is constantly covered in clutter. My white tile bathroom floor always has a few of my curly brunette strands on it, they stick out so much it almost looks like they're glowing. I still break-out occasionally and my furniture is always evenly layered in dust.
But I'm happy...and I have a happy child. We know how to laugh, to enjoy family (and we also know when to step away, which was a very important lesson to learn), we eat pizza a few times a week, we forget about bedtimes on the weekends and we can make each other laugh.
There is no perfect outfit, just one that reflects who I am. There is no perfect lipstick, but heck, I had a really good time trying to find it. My hair will never, ever, do what I want it to; it will never cooperate and I've learned to make peace with it. My body doesn't resemble a supermodel's, but it's healthy and after years of abuse, it has forgiven me and is serving me well.
So instead of perfection, I've learned to strive for happiness and health. Love will come to me when it's ready; I can't strive for that, all I have to do is be patient. Perhaps maybe being happy and healthy will send signals out into the universe that say I'm ready.