I am, admittedly, a person who admires the handiwork of etiquette guides. Call me old fashioned, but there’s something refreshing about good manners and people who acknowledge them (those who write etiquette books) and who exercise them (the few and far between who circulate somewhere out there). Aside from a long, mind-clearing run, nothing perks up my day as much as an exchange of pleasantries - pleases and thank you’s; doors held open, seats offered and respect given in general with nothing expected in return - to remind me that as brutal as life can be, we’re all in this together, and we might as well be nice.
While perusing the library for such inspiration, I came across a book small in both stature and length called Being Perfect, by Anna Quindlen. Though time was ticking - I had an appointment in less than half an hour and another five books on my list with call numbers scattered about - my inner perfectionist was instantly intrigued and pulled the book from the shelf, settling into an oversized chair near a window overlooking Boylston Street for a brief hiatus from my schedule. Instead of finding checklists of do’s and don’ts on my favorite form of masochism, I was pleasantly surprised to divulge in one woman’s tale of perfectionism deconstructed - and this selection, in particular:
“But nothing important, or meaningful, or beautiful, or interesting, or great, ever game out of imitations. What is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.”
It’s funny how we can find exactly what we’re looking for in the places we least expect them.
It’s serendipity
There are no accidents.