Perfection

While I am very much a perfectionist, I am too lazy to strive for impeccability.

My shed, for example, is rife with avoidable, naked-eye horrors, and so are my gardening and food-preserving procedures, and everything else I do. You should see the trim I installed over the weekend (and the associated ruination of adjacent walls and trim).

Only a few of the undesirabilities in that which I do can I blame on circumstance, since most of the time I am at least partly responsible for how life plays out; I neither accept my own ineptitude as a fair excuse nor condone my impatience, both of which are prevalent worries.

As a perfectionist, I am not blind to the myriad blemishes; I spot them every time I’m around them. Only the other things I’d rather be doing keep me from trying to work out their collective salvation.