Perfection vs. Progress

A few weeks ago I ran out of heating oil on a very cold day. I'm talking single digit cold. My fiance shuffled around our apartment in a hoodie, wearing wool socks with his flip-flops. I stayed in bed, not just because it was the warmest spot in the house, but also because it was far away from the kitchen sink, chock-full of dirty dishes and a bit ripe-smelling to boot.

I felt rotten, suffocated by the weight of my shortcomings: Dust-bunnies the size of tumbleweed in every corner; nary a clean pot in which to cook; a broken tail-light on the car.

I could go on. The list is long. Like a roll of toilet paper. Jumbo size.

The urge to dwell on these imperfections is strong. Doing so is not just counterproductive. It's damaging. It's paralyzing. The wheels of progress freeze solid.

Progress. It's such a nice word. Compare it to perfection.

Really. Say them both aloud. Progress. Perfection.

Progress expands. The essess at the end can go on forever.

Perfection is pinched. It's word-wings clipped.

Could it be any clearer which is better?

I'm tired of perfection screwing up my progress, and I hope you are too.

Oh, and about that weekend without heat? The memory of my fiance sporting a hoodie and rocking wool socks with flip flops is one of this snowy winter's brightest spots yet.