Last week I bent down to pick up the laundry in my closet, and I hit my head on the sharp corner of the shoe organizer my husband had just put in there. Oh, the drama. I yelled and cursed, I rolled on my bed howling, I ran to the mirror to assess the damage. It would have been hilarious as a scene on "Modern Family" or something.
The absolutely UN-funny part, though, is that I now have an L-shaped gash on my head, marring (perhaps forever) my beautiful, perfect head.
In this heat wave I have wanted nothing more than to strip off my head coverings and let my skin breathe...but I haven't wanted the world to see my scar.
Who knows, maybe it won't actually scar. Maybe it will heal, nice and clean. But I find myself reciting my old mantra every time I look in the mirror: "Of course, this would happen to me. God must have thought I was getting too vain." I really don't know why I automatically go to that line of thought, that any physical imperfection is there to keep me from being vain.
But I do. I see these imperfections as punishments, blemishes that keep me from looking the way I want. I still remember that on my wedding day I had a couple of scabs on my arm from some bug bites I had scratched too hard. I tried to cover them up with makeup, but they showed up in some of the pictures. I wasn't too bothered by it, but I did feel a little sorry for myself, regretting that I hadn't taken better care of my skin (for my wedding photos).
Yes, I am a perfectionist. I can't stand to have my kids wearing clothes with stains on them. I donate my clothes once they get stains on them that won't come out. If I paint my nails and then one of them chips a little right away, I want to hit something. If I have just mopped and a new little dribble of milk ends up falling to the floor afterward, I turn into a crazy lady.
I don't know why I can't handle little mess-ups. A child therapist I know recently gave me an accidental insight into this. Speaking about a child, he said that some kids really like to organize toys because it helps them to order their thoughts as well.
I suppose there is some mental equivalent to my need for a pure canvas, an unscratched table, an unstained shirt, or a zit-free face.
The solution? Redefining perfection.
Is perfection the absence of flaws? Or are flaws indicative of being perfectly human? (Deep thoughts with Wendy...)
When I look at my head, now scratched and scarred, I will try to see it as a story I am in the middle of telling. Who wants a story with no conflict? A happy ending means nothing without the conflict. So that's it. My head is a story waiting for its happy ending. And aren't we all?
We saw a very large tattoo on a woman's back - her top showing the work of art - us thinking 'that will be there FOREVER'.... here is what she had imprinted on her back for all to see for all time: "Perfect Imperfection" ... I believe God created us in His image, therefore, we should accept who we are, what we become (as that changes each day), and try to laugh when those changes seem so imperfect to us.... to Him we are Perfect Imperfection. Don'cha think?? :) By the way,,,, I love scars - they tell stories!
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