Learning to love imperfection

A powerful idea from Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project popped into my mind this weekend. I first read this book some years back during a particularly active “change my life for the better” phase.

In the opening chapter, Rubin sets up the premise for her one-year experiment to cultivate greater happiness, arguing that the elusive happiness factor can be harnessed through small, cumulative shifts of habit and perspective. In short, it’s all about awareness and gratitude, combined with a bit of commitment to make changes one step at a time.

Happiness Unpacked

Like Rubin, I have a lot to be grateful for: a loving husband, a steady and well-paid professional career, a comfortable home, friends from all walks of life, and the opportunity to travel the world for work and pleasure.

And yet, as the years fly by I am gripped with anxiety about paths not explored, opportunities not seized, mistakes made (oh, so many…), achievements not fulfilled, and, most worrisome, about the thought of waking up one day years from now feeling exactly the same way — weighed down by an incessant list of responsibilities and wondering where the time disappeared.

I have reached the age where it’s sinking in that the future I once imagined may not come to fruition. Self-indulgent as it may seem, a part of me still struggles to let go of the dream. A persistent voice in my head (probably one of the Board members I fired a couple of months ago) sneaks in to tell me what I should be rather than celebrate what I am. (Another great Gretchen-ism described in the book.)

Somehow through the blur of several degrees and a workaholic-fueled start to my career, I didn’t become the next Oprah or Anna. I don’t live in a penthouse in Manhattan or commute to work in a chauffeured Lincoln Town Car dressed impeccably in my Vogue-approved wardrobe. I haven’t made an Oscar-winning documentary film and I don’t host regular dinner parties for the Who’s Who of the arts, media and entertainment.

A Perfect Life?

Admittedly, the Type A in me sometimes laments this perceived failure and longs for my fantasy world, brought to you by Vanity Fair and Monocle, to be real. (Whenever I complain about this to my husband he likes to remind me of the European male equivalent: “Yes, and I would have liked to be a football star…but here I am – and it’s working out OK!”)

The irony is, it is literally impossible for anyone to manifest The Perfect Life: to entertain with the panache of Martha, dress with the effortlessly chic style of Amal Clooney, sculpt the teeny tiny dancer’s body of Tracy Anderson, achieve PhDs in ten subjects, win an Olympic medal, and run Oprah’s behemoth media company all at the same time (well, unless you’re Gwyneth or Tyler, that is).

The less ego-driven side of my brain will jump in here for a moment to ask the more pertinent question: would there actually be any fun left in a life after perfecting every last inch to such suffocating precision? The truth I’ve discovered — much as it’s painful to acknowledge and difficult to remember in the throes of “first world self-pity problems” — is that profound joy is actually, more often than not, found in the imperfection of life. The truth is that the closer I come to magazine-perfect moments, the more anxious I feel.

Perfection is so precarious: it is fleeting and requires an insatiable amount of energy to sustain, like an impeccably manicured garden. There is undoubtedly a sense of harmony in the geometric clarity and comforting symmetry of tamed nature, or self. But a backyard full of colourful mismatched flowers, a beat-up bright yellow watering can, butterflies and a few unexpected surprises is infinitely more interesting. It tells a story. It’s full of character. It’s full of life.

Practicing Imperfection

The first of Rubin’s 12 Commandments outlined in The Happiness Project is to “Be Gretchen”. She describes the process of giving herself permission to let go of who she thinks she should be and, instead, embrace her full, imperfect self. Whenever I am seized with an overwhelming need to transform my life into an airbrushed magazine world devoid of life, I remember this and give myself permission to “Be Aimée”:

• The Aimée that adores glamour but, in practice, is more comfortable in jeans and flats for the day-to-day; albeit, colourful and sparkly flats
• The Aimée that would rather put her hair in a ponytail on Saturday morning than wash and blow dry — and, in so doing, steal back an extra half hour to read
• The Aimée that hasn’t a clue how to roast a chicken but is willing to try — and order a pizza if it doesn’t work out
• The Aimée that can’t speak flawless Italian with the in-laws but stumbles through anyway and manages to make herself understood
• The Aimée that can never remember whether to start with the water or wine glass in a table setting (I mean, really, who cares so long as the company at the table is fabulous?)
• The Aimée that sometimes leaves the dishes until tomorrow
• The Aimée that will never stop dreaming and striving but needs a rest from time to time — and to live life as it unfolds, in all its imperfect beauty

(Feature photo: Moyan Brenn / flickr)