A worse disposition in life is hard to imagine; being a perfectionist.
In this distinctly imperfect world, a perfectionist risks insanity every hour of the day. Driving, interacting with businesses, watching tv, attempting to raise part-way civilized urchins – all of these standard pastimes are inherently, shall we say, flawed.
You can see where I’m heading with this. Single people looking to find someone with whom they should/want to couple better not be looking for the perfect match. A greater fools’ errand there is not. Failure is guaranteed.
But let’s not be sad. Nature has a way for perfectionists to be happy for a while. It’s called limerence. Limerence is what we used to think of as falling in love, that initial stage of attraction and desire to please another marking the visceral beginnings of reproduction. Limerence stops us seeing faults in others, so that we stick together long enough for her to get pregnant.
Nature tricks us with this ploy. After a while, when the hormones wear off and the blinders stop working, we’ll see the other person without the positive spin. This is that unpleasant period when we begin to notice the annoying habits, the infuriating turn of phrase and that despicable…oh dear. I think my perfectionism is starting to show.
Tempering perfectionism isn’t easy, but it is simple. I take a look in the mirror. A physical and a metaphysical mirror, and wonder what on earth I was thinking.
Love is the best. No question.
But wouldn’t it be more long-lasting if it were the last stop on an all-stations train rather than the only stop for an express?