Mother says I started tearing my fingernails when my father left Iran. That’s her way of psychoanalyzing it. Maybe there is a connection, maybe not.
So I never have perfect nails. Sometimes I barely have any. Women in the family like to lecture me about it. They like to say a lady should take care of herself, manicure her nails, not leave fainted polish on them, not bite or tear them into pieces.
But I’ve gotten addicted to this nasty habit, to this addiction. It relieves my tensions, it gives me something to do, it keeps me busy.
With a mother and sister both obsessed with perfection, I’m probably the most imperfect woman in the family. I’m obsessed with writing, with getting things done, with being on time, with being there for people, with analyzing and thinking, but I’m no where close to perfect, to being flawless. The external world doesn’t have to be perfect for me, a bed doesn’t have to be made, a sink doesn’t have to be empty of dirty dishes. But my internal thoughts, my intentions, my goals have to be almost near perfection.
Perfection is boring. Being imperfect, being messy, being mismatched and perfectly flawed, that’s exciting…that’s who I am.