In Praise Of Imperfection

So I've been telling myself, and for a good couple of years, something is wrong. Social networks are swollen from impeccable bodies, faultless meal plans, and living patterns beyond our imagination. Each person found on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter is saturated with information on how to get fit, lose weight, beautify, never grow old, and appeal to everyone. 

I vaguely recall that I once succumbed to the information my friend had given me orally at our math class (a tiny note for the younger generation - there were no smartphones, no Facebook, basically nothing). It seemed to me that the only way of getting a clean face was eating a huge healthy bowl consisting of grated apples, carrot, honey, and nuts for breakfast. Due to my pubertal skin appearance, I got over myself. So I would actually grate carrot and apples each morning for several weeks in a row. The miracle did not happen, and for another year I could see neither an apple nor a carrot.

For years I felt in no way perfect. I was satisfied neither with the look nor with my existence. Maybe it's a part of life, being, as we all know, a journey. And this journey is much more important than the goal itself. The thing is that when looking at the perfect social world, this claim is somehow dissolved, and few people actually believe it. From the position of a mature woman, I can confirm the following. Perfection does not exist. By that, I mean the physical and psychological irreproachability commonly regarded as a sign of satisfaction and happiness. So the Internet is full of nonsense and disgrace. Until recently, I wasn't committed to any healthy lifestyle. Some habits are still there.

I don't exercise regularly nor use expensive anti-age cosmetics. I don't like cleaning up, and I'm a bit lazy. Much like a typical café loafer. Fortunately, I was able to unite my passion and work in one. I am healthier than before (before the raw vegan period); sometimes my husband takes me skiing, hiking, or cycling around the mountains. I cherish moments spent with him, my daughters, and our greyhounds. Our household will never be perfect. Bitten doors and torn rugs in the hall are seen on a daily basis. I won't ever have neither a perfect body nor flawless skin. I won't probably stop the ageing, and I won't become Twiggy, because I like savouring a piece of raw cake. But I'm happier than ever before. I dedicate my life to something meaningful. I spend my time generating new ideas for the café and writing my books. This is my journey, and I enjoy it the way it is.

I have to correct myself. Perfection exists. It is love that envelopes us as soon as we let it enter our lives.

Sincerely yours,