This morning I took a kickboxing class, a class my friend fondly calls ninja training. I love this class. For fifty minutes, we punch and kick the air as if it were an opponent. All the while, I picture whichever person or issue giving me the most grief at the moment. Mentally working towards a TKO.
There are people in the class who can literally kick higher than their shoulders. And some of the kicks are called flying kicks, where one is supposed to sort of high jump forward, kicking their imaginary, floating opponent. All Crouching-Tiger-Hidden-Dragon-style.
I, being rooted to the earth by Muscular Dystrophy, kick only a few inches off the floor. And jump-kicking I can only do when dreaming--maybe that's why I have so many dreams where I'm flying. God's little way of letting me experience my feet leaving the earth. If I'm being honest, I envy them a little. They look like they're having such fun defying gravity for those few stolen seconds. Of course, everything we cannot do always looks more tempting simply because we are denied it, the proverbial puppy in the window from our childhoods. Can't I have it, please, mom?
This morning, a thought struck me as I lost my balance during a lunging move. Teetering on the edge of my right Nike and feeling a little bit pissed off that I couldn't do the full move everyone else was doing, I realized that I have changed. I am no longer perfect. I know, I know, it came as quite a shock to me, too.
The more surprising part was that instead of thinking shit in this eye-opening moment, I thought free. In this moment, I actually congratulated myself. I realized that, even though I can't do all of the ninja moves, I have a ninja heart. To be out there. Kicking and punching and elbowing despite being disabled. And it wasn't one of those I-deserve-an-award-because-I-am-so-brave-to-be-defying-this congratulations. It was an I'm-not-perfect-and-I'm-proud-of-that one.
My need to be perfect started young. Having a disability that, starting in my three-year-old mind, had to be defied caused me to want to perfect whatever I could control. Can't you picture it? A little three-year-old girl. Hands on hips. Feet stomped firmly to the earth. Face set. Ready to push the boundaries. Ready to say a big FUCK YOU to MD. I guess that's what my life has been. A giant middle finger pointed at this imaginary, or not so imaginary, Goliath called Muscular Dystrophy.
The need for perfection plagued me in so many ways. I began people-pleasing in kindergarten when I told Mrs. Oretegon that I would show the new girl around, not necessarily because I wanted to be nice but more so because I wanted the teacher to think I was nice. Because I could not gain popularity through sports and was sort of an ugly-duckling, I gained friends by being the nicest girl at school. Not to say that it wasn't at all genuine. But there was so much sass in me that gurgled under the surface. A bubbling mass of quick-wit and snarky sarcasm I didn't dare set free.
In addition to the need to please people, I also work(ed) so hard to perfect my body. Over-exercising. Under-eating. Of course, all of this restriction can only lead to rebellion. Look at Czar Nicholas II and the Russians. That did not end well.
I was always the "good girl," never rocking the boat. I never swore. I never played Spin the Bottle. I never lied to my parents about where I was going or with whom. I didn't even have my first drink until I was 23.
What I've just been realizing lately is that not only has this need to be perfect affected my life in the obvious ways. Those ways that I can analyze for myself. It has also subconsciously affected my life-choices. Freud would be be beaming at my self-awareness. Although I am so very proud of the work that I do, it was my fear of failure that stopped me from pursuing a career in Psychology or medicine.
I am also sure that my need for perfection has prevented me from forming a bonded romantic relationship. In my 20s and early 30s, I always wanted to project only the best sides of my self. The ones that would surely attract. And I feared that when a man saw the parts of me I deemed ugly, he would run away. Or even if he didn't, how could I survive in a relationship that wasn't perfect?
This need for perfection is, of course, a human condition. We all suffer from it in varying degrees. We project ourselves as something we are not so that we can hold the jest up. This damages. Damages our self-worth. Damages our relationships. Damages our hearts.
2012 has been a birth year for me. The authentic me. The one who isn't perfect but is beautiful anyway. And that imperfect me is still saying F-You to MD; it's the fact that she's doing it out loud for all to hear is where the beauty lies.
I dare you to let your authentic show. Flash it just a little bit. It won't hurt you, I promise. In fact, it will set you free.
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