Being imperfect in a perfect world.

I am a little bit, or actually, the more I think about it, a lot a bit, of a hypocrite.

My ideals, that I often preach and strive to uphold are, in my opinion, admirable.

My intentions are great. I wake up most days with the intentions of being a good person.

I try my hardest to upkeep all of the above, whilst battling against all of the things that try to throw me off, yet I am quite simply: imperfect. Below par. Under Baked. 6/10. Je ne se qua.

And aren’t we all?

So, why do I feel a constant pressure to hide the fact that I am a fraud. I’m sort of talking about imposter syndrome, the feeling that you are inadequate and not equipped for the position that you have found yourself in, but really I’m talking about marketing yourself as one thing, when you are definitely something else.

Let me give you an insight into how I have realised this tendency that I have, the tendency to talk the talk but often not manage to walk the walk.

My friends, I’m sure are aware, that I rarely think the men in their lives are good enough for them. One slip up and I take it as an opportunity to stand on my podium of empowerment and list all of the reasons why they should leave the scoundrel and how they, Goddesses not from this realm, should laugh at the muggle and flick him away with their powerful hands.

I’m sure that they find this intolerable, they roll their eyes at the judgement, the preachy-ness and only remain friends with me because of the place that it originates from. My sermon from the podium of empowerment is fuelled by love and admiration.

When looking back at my own history of relationships with men however, I am unnerved to find that I must have missed the lecture on ‘How to flick away a scoundrel and be treated the way that you deserve.’ I must have been off sick, or did not pay attention.

If any of my Goddess friends came to me with a story that mirrored any of the relationships that I have had, I would shout, scream and pull them away from that toxicity faster than they could say ‘But he’s really good in…’

I sit on my high and regal single chair judging the relationships of my friends but still fall back into habits of being used, ghosted and generally undervalued.

HYPOCRITE.

As with my goddess friends, I tend to portray to the world that I love and will empower all women, even if she’s a bit of a dickhead, or she shagged my ex-boyfriend, ruling out only murderers and the phobics.

YET, I cannot sit through an episode of Strictly Come Dancing without declaring my raging hatred for Tess Dealey. I fucking hate the woman for no reason at all. I don’t want to hate her, she’s never done anything wrong to me, and I would never (normally) publicly declare this, because that’s bad feminism, bad person-ism quite frankly.

This morning, I went to a spin class and a lady on the front row annoyed me so much, for no particular reason, that I found my self sort of wishing that she’d fall off her bike. Horrific. Bad person. Hypocrite feminist. Secretly imperfect.

I’m noticing now that most of this behaviour relates to my glorious girlfriends. I’m realising how annoying I must be, thank you for sticking around, I appreciate it greatly.

Another rant which I like to encroach on, is the idea that to be happy in oneself, has fuck all to do with the way that you look. If you’ve read my blog, then you’ll know this. I tell my friends that their insecurities are merely a product of societies aesthetic pressures. I talk about food and exercise being fuel and nourishments and I HATE diets. Yet last week someone told me that I looked like I had lost weight and I really liked it. I felt all proud and thin and never wanted to eat again.

I don’t believe this deep down, I believe in the ideals that I strive to uphold, but this doesn’t stop me from passing on the bread that I so desperately want, or feeling smug when someone registers my appearance in a positive way.

I am vegan, yet this Sunday I can’t wait to dive head first into a bowl of cauliflower cheese.

I grow my armpit hair in an attempt to bring down the patriarchy one strand at a time, yet sometimes I feel self conscious at the gym when I have to put my arms above my head.

I think fast fashion is wrong and needs to be stopped; the outfit I am wearing for my Birthday night out is from BooHoo.com.

Instagram is most definitely bad for my mental health, yet I have spent the entirety of this writing process checking it every five minutes.

I tell all of my friends, very smugly, the dangers of ‘pre-cum’ yet often fail to insist on the use of a condom.

I want to be single, I’m happy, I have too much going on. I don’t like men anyway: I just redownloaded tinder.

I hate the idea of appeasing men, yet I fake orgasms when I want sex to end.

I think it’s important to be self sufficient and to work for everything that you have; yet my Dad still slips money into my hand whenever I go home.

I tell everyone to put themselves first, to prioritise self-care yet, I say yes to things that I don’t want to do, or don’t have time to do because I feel guilty or obliged to help.

I don’t tell anyone any of this shit. I don’t put my hands up and admit that I only execute 20% of what I preach.

So enough of the smoke and mirrors, I don’t want to lie or pretend, I don’t even want to be perfect. It’s not reality. All I have is my intentions and the way that I treat people. I preach to my friends because I want the best for them, my inability to follow my own advice is not a flaw, I’m just a work in progress.

Our lives are portrayed through pictures, events, experiences and hashtags. We’re afraid of the dark times, the ugly times, the times that don’t look perfect, but why? We’re afraid of judgement? Afraid of facing up to the truth?

I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I may be a hypocrite but I feel if I acknowledge that, accept it and understand that the will behind my actions is often positive, then there’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll continue to grasp for my higher purpose but when I fall below par, I’ll know that the intention was good and the journey is long and winding and full of mistakes.

We’re all just people, figuring it out, so why not express our failures as well as our achievements.

I AM going to try really hard to stop faking orgasms because I think it’s bad for everyone and it encourages a never ending cycle of bad sex, which no one really wants. I will also try not to despise Tess Dealey so vehemently.

I am also going to continue to tell my friends that they’re Goddesses and pull them up on their mistakes, whilst I continually make the same ones, because I love them and that’s what I’m here for.

Sorry Ladies, you can get me back by doing the same to me.

Be self-aware and learn that striving for perfect is like trying to stay dry in a swimming pool. Keep your intentions good and your judgements limited. Never feel guilty for not being able to do everything, Honestly, juggling all of the above would quite literally make me an omni-being.

Empower your friends, empower yourself, earn money, eat to nourish, exercise, be kind to ALL women (even Tess Dealey), have good sex, ensure that all men treat you with respect, be a good feminist but don’t be aggressive, don’t shave your armpits but be confident about it, feel good in yourself but only for you not when indulged in by others, be vegan, do a downward dog, find time to buy second hand clothes, don’t go on Instagram too much but have a healthy online presence in order to progress in this fucked up world, stay STI free, put yourself first but be a good and present friend etc etc head exploding, I’ll have a gin and tonic and a lie down instead please.

It’s hard, so all we can really do is try our best, accept when we’re wrong, love ourselves and others as whole-heartedly as possible and forgive yourself for not being able to do all of this every day.

I’m perfectly imperfect and proud to be.

You should be too. x

 

 

 

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