No one has ever accused me of being a perfectionist.
After all these years, I’m comforted by author Tal Ben-Shahar to know that this is a good thing. In his book, Being Happy, I learn that attempting to do things perfectly is a troublesome trait.
So, to tout my outstanding lack of perfection, I’m listing a few of my common behaviors:
When I wash silverware at the house, my dryer, Sherry, often points out little bits of dried egg yolk still on the tongs.
If I put on one black sock and a truly dark blue sock, I’m OK with it.
My windshield can be mud-spattered for a day or two. After all, my wiper fluid container has been dry since Thursday.
I don’t need to finish a crossword puzzle. It just doesn’t matter.
I could go on and on. No wonder I’m so happy.
Worries