I can’t believe it!  This blog had 9 visits the other day. That’s pretty exciting, especially since I haven’t even told nine people about it.  (Don’t you feel among the elite now?)  I have a ton of “friends” on Facebook , many who very well may be interested in reading about my dog’s bathtime, or the pierogies I downed this fall, but I’ve neglected to mention it in any of my status updates.  I’ve also neglected to write anything since November.

Know why?  Well, let me look in this bag of excuses I have here and see what excuse works best.  And the winner is:

Everyone will think it’s dumb.

Oooh, that’s a good one.  I use that one A LOT.  It’s really great for when I get a book idea that I don’t start, or mix-n-match an outfit that I never wear.  I’ve got a bunch of other excuses, too, for nearly every occasion.  Let’s see:

• Someone’s already done it.

• They did it better than me.

• They did it funnier than me.

• I have no talent.

• I have ice cream in the freezer.

• This is really good ice cream.

• Just one more scoop and I’ll put it back.

• Okay, maybe one more.

• I’m out of ice cream.

The supermarket closes at 9pm, making a midnight ice cream run impossible, but the store that sells my brand of can’t-do-its is open like a 7-Eleven.

The irony is, my striving for perfection is severely flawed. I want things to be right.  Delicious.  Important.  I don’t want you to waste your time with some blog drivel.  I don’t want to waste my time either—though it should be noted that this is my fifth attempt at trying to write this post.  [Update: Sixth.]  But I never get around to being perfect because it seems whatever I tackle is so darn imperfect that I never start.  I’m reminded of the seventh grade art projects I made that were not nearly as cool as the students sitting to the left and right of me, or the ideas I now brainstorm at work that are nowhere near as clever as my co-workers.  (To be fair, they are pretty brilliant people and I just hope some of their genius rubs off on me.)  Gosh, once I type it all out, all the fear and the fretting, no wonder I’m so exhausted from keeping up all of that negative mental energy.

Just the word “perfection” creates a firestorm of opinion.  Psychologists want us to believe it’s a four-letter word that stifles our personal growth.  Barbra Streisand thinks it’s the foundation of her success.  I think both are right.  Some people believe in progress, not perfection, which, if I really ponder it, sounds dew-able—though I won’t ponder it for too long lest I don’t get around to dewing anything.

So, for now, to those nine visitors (or if it was my cousin visiting nine times), getting out a somewhat imperfect post—after a two-month hiatus—is progress.  Your taking the time to visit me here is perfection.

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