I come from a long line of perfectionists. Everyone in my family--my parents, grandparents, and probably their parents--preached the gospel of lofty expectations. Additionally, I attended Catholic school for 12 years: Let me tell you, those nuns worshiped a perfect God and ruled with a ruler.
"God's perfections are marvelous," observed German philosopher Immanuel Kant. "But not loveable."
Look, I'm not complaining. As Popeye the Sailor said on more than one occasion, "I yam what I yam" and I believe because of my perfectionist tendencies I'm self-disciplined, conscientious, and reliable. I do good. I'm the designated driver and teacher's pet. I show up on time. I'm a hard worker, consistent, and productive.
Want proof? Take a stroll around Daily Celebrations.
The drawbacks of perfection are those twinges of mania that force you to organize your closet by color and type. Or the need to research a project ad nauseam just in case you missed something... (Excuse me while I stop for a minute to start a load of laundry and clean the kitchen. Again.)
"Have no fear of perfection," said artist Salvador Dali. "You'll never reach it."
Oh. In researching this celebration, I've discovered that perfectionists also tend to be shamelessly judgmental and critical. And the only grade they are satisfied with is an A.
Guilty as charged.
Perfection is just a state of mine, er, mind.