Here's a piece I wrote on the redundancy of perfection, primarily in body shape:"Aim at perfection in everything, though in most things it is unattainable. However, they who aim at it, and persevere, will come much nearer to it than those whose laziness and despondency make them give it up as unattainable."
Lord Chesterfield must have been a wise man; who else could have given humanity a never-ending goal to strive for?
But maybe, just maybe, he didn't quite get it right. Why should we aim to hit perfection, knowing fully well that it is as unreal as mathematical infinity, or rather iota? Sure, it is a way of constantly reinventing yourself; sure it ensures you don't get complacent; definitely, it helps you reach zeniths of success you might never have acknowledged the possibility of... But there is a catch. A rather big one, actually. Of course, as opposed to "laziness", perfection is... let's just say a perfect option. But between the black and the white, there are quite a few rich shades of grey. After all, grey is the new black!
The pursuit of perfection carries around a transparent cloak of unrealness. While we deliberate, discuss, or debate, the cloak remains invisible. But when it comes to being in the real world, things change.
How many of us genuinely don't want a bikini-babe/ramp-hunk body? Yet how many of the rest have one? I could go on with the statistics now, but what are we getting to? Are we robo sapiens, expectedly crafted to perfection, all manufactured and quality-checked to ensure size-zeroes or eight-packs? In case anyone's waiting for an answer, go figure.
We frequently notice the flabby using the evergreen khaate-peete-khaandaan-ke-log as an argument-stopper. The ones far on the other side of the spectrum of course are assumed to be happy and satisfied.
This is where we get carried away into the wrong territory. Whoever started the idea of happiness coming from having things? True happiness and satisfaction are not outside-in phenomena. They're exactly 180 degrees away from that—inside-out. I'm happier with my few-extra-pounds than my next-door neighbour with enviably chiselled curves. And the reason is simply that body shape (or salary, or car brand, for that matter) is not the right yardstick to measure happiness.
It's actually interesting to wonder how the thought of desirability and body fat being inversely proportional originated... But who cares? Now is the time to question it! Don't get me wrong here; I'm not defending couch-potato behaviour or condoning sedentary lifestyles, and the bunch of grapes in my palm is perfectly sweet. I'm simply hoping to shake up some closed minds. It's not merely a matter of perspective: Researchers recently combined the best features of the faces of some of the world's sexiest women, including Kiera Knightly, Angelina Jolie and Megan Fox. And no goodies for guessing that the end result was a face just above average, at best. Irrelevant example, you may say, but the point is that literature accepts that the greatest perfection is imperfection.
There you go! With a reasonable and scientific proof against the real existence of perfection, a mere mortal doesn't even need to go on rambling about it.
And hence she stops.
