Behind the scenes
Behind the scenes

Lately, I find that I spend a lot of time perusing over Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest and other blogs.  I’d rather spend an hour catching up with friends and family online than watch an hour of TV.  Life is so much prettier with filters applied.  Right?

I find myself wondering how everything and everyone became so perfect. Of course I know most everyone uses filters and cropping apps on everything, but at a glance it seems as though we’re all living impeccably well.  It didn’t bother me until recently, because I’ve been grieving, because I’ve been struggling.  I didn’t realize how much effort it was to keep up the faΓ§ade.

I celebrated my birthday this past weekend with a few friends.  Apprehensive as I was that I’d be the downer, I’m so glad that I chose to go.  It’s been easier to hide these last few months.  I’ve done the bare minimum, as far as social commitments are considered.  Tears have fallen so easily lately that I was fearful that I’d lose my smile two glasses of Cabernet into the weekend.   The amount of wine I consumed was pretty amazing, and it was all really good wine.  Somehow, the tears stayed at bay.  My happiness peaked through.  I laughed a lot.  My friends get me.

It rained all weekend.  I forgot my rain boots and it didn’t matter.  I spent 90% of the weekend inside.  I still had a beautiful view of the lake and I had a fat book stack.  My sister provided a mixed case of red wine and I had lots of cheese!

Saturday night we cooked together.  We squeezed into the kitchen and laughed and cooked and kept our goblets filled.  Normally I try to just show the finished, perfect product, like this table my sister set for us:

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and the way we cooked together and made a mess, unlike the following picture of it already prepped in the dish.

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and this kale that’s already been cleaned and dressed for the oven to bake.

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even the way I try to crop pictures, to highlight the wine and flowers like this

The table they set for me
The table they set for me

But it’s not like that.  Life’s just not like that.  It’s messy.  It’s fun.  It’s hard. There are fires in the kitchen. There are expensive, perfectly cooked filets that I drop on the floor that the dog eats.  There are messy potato skins on the counter with used, plastic wrap.  My hair is usually in a pony tail while I wear my inexpensive, “reader” glasses.  But that’s not what you always see.  I do appreciate that the perfection I see has pushed me to think more about the content of what I show and that’s not such a bad thing.  It’s pushed me to be better in some ways. I’m not sad about that.  I also realize that in order for me to live a more authentic life, I need to reveal more of my imperfect life.

12 thoughts on “My Imperfect Life

  1. Love this post. Happy belated birthday! So glad you are calling the world out on our images of perfection. So much easier to bare all and be loved for the truth.

  2. I absolutely love this. I’ve been struggling lately as I work through having an almost 2 year old and 3 week old and I see other moms’ frequent posts of perfect dinners, arts and crafts ideas, and family photos. I look around my own house and see chaos. It’s refreshing to remember that a snapshot doesn’t necessarily represent total reality. Thanks for the reminder πŸ™‚

  3. You are beautiful and amazing, and we love you just the way you are – perfect or not. :o) Happy belated birthday and glad you had some sister time. And dude – if I posted all the “non-perfect” photos of me and my family on facebook I would make you SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoo happy….we have zillions let me tell you. We actually have a saying we say all the time, “That’s going on facebook” (insert sarcasm…) because its so terrible. :o) I love reading your blog. :o)

  4. I love this. And I love that you are real! If I posted all the imperfect pics on FB, someone would probably call to have one of us admitted! πŸ˜‰ Keep being you and know there are those of us still thinking of your family and hoping/praying that your grief gets a little less to deal with everyday.

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