Being an imperfectionist has served me. Maybe it was the erosion of any standard of household cleanliness from having a large brood, or perhaps it was the side effect of having a mother with mental struggles. My body was marred in several ways, with hearing problems, a need for glasses, and lungs that still feel the effects of second hand smoke. 

Yet being relinquished of any need to shine up my life for some unspoken competition left plenty of time for bungling along. Leave the trophies for other people. I am busy getting my hands dirty. 

My marriage is not and has never been perfect. We forget Valentine's Day, and miss chances to buy presents for each other. We go to bed at different times, and wake up to varied schedules. I could go on with all the ways we don't fit the mold, but what's the point of that? 

We have a partnership that trots along, sometimes with me being the group leader and other moments when John manages the finances. Amazingly, to me anyway, there are few self congratulations for those areas in which we have an ability that comes in handy. To be puffed up about it would be like a person trying to walk, and being constantly interrupted by the foot in front pointing that out. 

Being comfortable with my shortcomings is particularly convenient as I age, and those flaws increase.

Plus since I am willing to enjoy making quilts with imprecise points I can keep sewing,