I, Perfectionist

I struggle with perfectionism. I mean, there is a fine line between perfectionism and a healthy desire to excel, so even now I ask myself whether I am not merely striving to be my best. But I know—I know deep down there is a little piece of me that cannot rest.

I think of perfectionism as a negative thing—not all bad, mind you; perfectionism can be thought of as a strong desire to excel which twists at the end into discontent, like a late-breaking curveball dropping into the clay at home plate.

Perfectionism is a hunger that cannot quite be sated. This is because the distance between perfect and almost perfect is infinitely divisible.

Yet perfectionism does possess a kind of nobleness—it produces results. By aiming high, the perfectionist outstrips his competitors regardless of how far short he falls of his own goals. He wins by virtue of his persistent, irresistible lean toward lofty ideals. Ironically, he is least satisfied among all men.

The reason for his discontent is quite simple. It is thus: the perfectionist's object is not really this or that pursuit at which he happens for the moment to ply. He does not at last seek to make the perfect painting or write the perfect poem.

He makes himself. He wishes to become the perfect painter, the perfect writer—the genius who creates such masterpieces. The pieces themselves are neither here nor there.

This is the perfectionist's discontent—the sour note at the end of his symphony, the fly in his ointment—himself. God rested after His creative work and saw that it was good; the perfectionist, being imperfect because of his fallen nature, cannot rest, and thus cannot call his work good. There is always something askew because he is askew.

I, Perfectionist, will try to rest from my labors insofar as it has been appointed to me to do so.

I, Perfectionist, will cease trying to be the perfect man and let the perfect Man take me into His rest.

I, Perfectionist, will not post twice on this blog today to make up for the day I missed.

I, Perfectionist, will not edit this blog post for typos—








—Ok, that last one was a lie. I could not help myself.