I was at my OB/Gyn appointment when my quirky Dr started talking about exercising.

He asked me, “do you exercise?”

I said, “yes.”

He said, “what do you do?”

Me: “I do some cardio.”

Him:  “Like what?”

Me:  “Elliptical.  Light running.”  (Hamster (internal dialogue):  why the f is he asking such details?  OK OK… I don’t exercise that much… Geez).

Him:  “Do you do spinning?”

Me:  “No.  No way.  I don’t need my crotch to be on fire.”

Him:  “But you are standing most of the time.”

Me:  “Yes.  If you do it right.  Why?  Did you like it?”

Him:  “yeah, the after.  But during, I didn’t like it because everyone else seemed better than me.”

Me: “You’re a perfectionist.”

Him:  “Yeah, well duh.  Aren’t you?”

Me:  “No.  I’m average.  And I’m contented being average.”

Yep, these are the convo’s I have with my Gyno. Crazy, right?  He’s young.  He’s funny.  I hear mommies go nuts over him.  I get it.  But to me, he’s just my Gyno/part time shrink.

With this convo, I realized that the pursuit of perfection is fuel for some people and disaster for others.  For me, it’s not fun.  It hasn’t been fun.  To be honest, I don’t know what perfection is.  I get glimpses of it when I stare at my daughter.  When I feel her unjaded sweetness… I think that’s as close to perfection I am ever going to get.  When she was an infant… she was perfection.  But I missed the opportunity to thoroughly enjoy it because I was so caught up in my own distress.  Now, she’s perfection in her stubborness, her humor, her naivety…and her blossoming personality.  But for me personally, the pursuit of it has oftentimes left me feeling even more inadequate and lonely.

So yes, I am absolutely resolved with being mediocre.  Average.  Normal.  The ironic thing is… I don’t even know what normal is.  I let out a chuckle right now because really… what is normal?  I’d like to think it could be me.  That I really am and could be normal.  That I could feel normal.  That would feel like perfection to me.