That’s it. I’m tired of embracing imperfection. From now on, I’m going to implement a plan designed to make me perfect.
I will have perfect nutrition and a perfect exercise regimen, which will lead to a perfect body (stress incontinence and people thinking I’m pregnant will be things of the past). I will have perfect sleep habits and stress reduction techniques, which will make my mood perfect (no more yelling at my kids or at other motorists!). I will have a perfect writing routine in order to be a perfect writer, and perfect housework routines so my home is perfectly clean at all times (both Martha Stewart and the folks from Pullitzer will be beating down my door).
In addition, my car will stop consuming oil, I’ll stop obsessing over blog stats, my children will stop whining, my husband’s eczema will go away, and my carbon footprint will be in negative numbers. I will never be late, I will make meals for every person I know who’s had a baby or experienced an illness, I’ll entertain shut-ins, I’ll drive immigrant families to the grocery store. I will remember every birthday, and I’ll use only reusable fabric gift wrap intricately folded and tied into the shapes of bunnies and meerkats and elephants.
Every word I utter will be witty, empathetic, and grammatically correct.
My hair and clothes will always be kempt.
My children will eat all of their vegetables, ask to be excused from the table, and put their own dishes in the dishwasher.
My cats will no longer vomit on the rugs.
And I will accomplish this within 30 days, and then publish my plan (Thirty Days to the Ideal You: How to Stop Being a Slob and Start Being Perfect), which will become a worldwide bestseller. I will go on an international book tour, allow myself to be seduced by a 24-year-old Italian named Giuseppe, be hounded by Paparazzi, get caught up in the drug scene, and spend six months at an exclusive rehab facility in the Canary Islands.
When I return home, I will have a renewed sense of gratitude for the simple things in life. In the face of the daily hassles that accompany modern motherhood, I will smile serenely and hug my children. Having finally unlocked the secret to happiness, publishers will beg me to write the book of my meteoric rise and precipitous fall, and perhaps I will, but I will give all of the profits to charitable organizations and refuse to participate in book tours, preferring to keep the focus on the lessons rather than on myself.
I will bask in the free time afforded me by no longer being the sweetheart of the media.
I’ll spend my time playing with my children, taking long walks in the sunshine, and holding hands with my husband.
By the time I’m 37, I will conclude that there is perfection within imperfection.
I suppose I’d best get started.