shed perfectionism

by

Hostage

“I don’t know about this,” I said to my husband Kris as we walked through the door, “I’m really not a fan of guns.”

“It’s going to be fine. Just try it. You might like it.”

I stepped into the bright warehouse. Colorful targets lined one wall, gear hung on the others. In the middle of the room stood a glass case containing guns of all sizes. Collectively, they looked menacing, a stark contrast to the smiling man behind the counter.

I had avoided guns my whole life with the exception of the required BB gun safety class in fourth grade gym. I have two memories of that class: lying uncomfortably on my belly, aiming at a target affixed to a cardboard box and afterward, throwing up in the hallway in front of all of my classmates. Perhaps the embarrassment of that incident kept me from touching a gun again for 35 years.

But now, years later, we were on a getaway date with my brother and sister-in-law and I wanted to be a good sport. That desire, and my husband’s casual reminder to “be brave, not perfect,” got me through my initial hesitation.

I was definitely a fish out of water, uncomfortable and nervous. For much of my life, perfectionism kept me from trying new things out of fear I would look stupid, feel awkward, perform imperfectly, or face judgement. I learned to observe rather than participate. But I’m changing that, so I signed the liability waiver and handed it back to the smiling clerk. In return, he handed me safety goggles, ear protection, and two targets: one featuring a woman being held hostage and another filled with cute, cuddly squirrels.

We stepped into the shooting area. “Ready for this?” Kris asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said. “Besides, now I have to rescue this woman from her attacker or the guilt will keep me awake tonight. I just hope I don’t accidentally kill her.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself to give this a try,” he smiled playfully.

I handed the hostage target to my brother-in-law so he could set things up. The safety officer in the room nodded at me, chuckling at my inappropriate footwear. I could only shrug in response. The heels matched my outfit.

I stepped into our cubby and leaned in to hear my brother-in-law’s muffled instructions through the earmuffs. He calmly pointed out the chamber, the safety, the clip. He rattled off a couple words of caution and some basics about my shooting stance.

“Ready to try it?” he asked.

Wait. Already? Don’t people usually take hours of gun safety? That was less than three minutes. I am now unconfidently holding a loaded weapon. What am I doing?

I nodded hesitantly, thinking through what I’d learned about body position. Square shoulders and hips to target. Create a solid grip. Extend arms out. Slightly bend knees and elbows. Lean forward. Close one eye. Line the site up with the attacker on the target. Pull evenly on the trigger. Don’t hit the hostage.

I took a steadying breath and fired. The kickback startled me, and the empty shell casing flew into the air and straight down my shirt.

“What the heck?!?!” I yelped, dropping a hand to my shirt to find and free it.

“They will fly all over. Just stay focused. You have a bunch of shots to go,” my brother-in-law said.

I took aim again and again, gradually adjusting to the feel of the gun and the strength of the kickback. Before long, the clip was empty.

“Let’s see how you did,” he said, bringing the target back in with the press of a button.

I took stock of the attacker and hostage. He was definitely dead. She may never use her right hand again but otherwise appeared unscathed.

“You saved her,” Kris said coming up beside me. “Nice work! What did you think?”

I looked down at the gun, a small sleek 9 mm pistol, and back at my target. I thought of how my journey to replace perfectionism with bravery had brought me to this unexpected place. I felt an unexpected glimmer of pride.

“Time to take care of those pesky squirrels.”

by

Perpetual Journey

“That’s it, I’m done with this,” I huff, setting my phone down in frustration. I lift my sweater to unbuckle the strap compressing my rib cage.

“What are you doing? What’s the problem?” my husband Kris asks from his perch at the counter.

“It’s this stupid exercise contest and the uncomfortable heart monitor belt that goes with it. My feet are killing me from running. I can barely walk or climb stairs my legs are so sore. I’m behind on work because of the time it takes me to fit this in, and this belt is literally cutting me in half. And now there’s no chance of winning the contest, so what’s the point?”

“It’s only day three Sara, you have all month to compete. Weren’t you in first place the other day?”

“Yes,” I snort in disgust. “I worked my tail off for five hours to get ahead yesterday, and did the same this morning, and still this other guy has double my points! I mean, I can’t exercise ten hours a day, that’s ridiculous!”

Finally finding the belt release, I fling it on the counter, plop myself into the chair next to him, and sigh.

I know I shouldn’t let it get to me. It’s a fun competition among friends. But it is also one that triggers my perfectionist and competitive tendencies which makes it harder to get my feelings under control.

I punch the close button on the app’s challenge board currently broadcasting my loser status, grab the belt, and stomp upstairs, tossing the belt onto my bedside table as I head for the shower.

Get a grip Sara. This isn’t life or death. You don’t have to prove anything to these people. They aren’t judging you.

But I can’t get a grip. As the water falls down over me I decide to bow out. It feels better for my soul. Another 27 days of working out while trying to adopt a healthy perspective on this competition would mentally exhaust me.

The discarded belt collects dust as the days pass. Everytime I see it, I vacillate between feeling like a childish sore loser and a wise woman, protecting my spirit. And while the belt’s presence doesn’t consume me, I am aware of the guilt ridden thoughts just below the surface. Occasionally these thoughts win and I strap it back on for a half hearted workout, before setting it back in its place.

Weeks later, I find myself in church on Easter, studiously taking sermon notes as the pastor outlines the way God sees us. It’s a hopeful message to match the holiday. One particular tidbit catches my attention.

“We aren’t finished yet,” my note reads. I begin drawing doodles as the pastor expounds, outlining her case for how our lives are journeys that never end, how we never stop growing or learning until our time on earth is done. And as such, God does not expect us to be anything other than a work in progress.

Logically, I know what she’s saying is true, but my perfectionist side often keeps me focused on end results for tangible proof of my worth. My journey, historically, has always been a means to an end. Something to struggle through to get the reassuring gold stars when the task is complete.

I have always had a subtle belief that I will one day be done with self discovery. That I will become the very best and perfect version of me with no flaws, pain, or missteps from that point forward. Hearing a reminder that it is impossible, that I will always be a work in progress, is initially disheartening. And yet, as I wrap my mind around this truth, I find it freeing as well.

If I can never achieve the “perfect” version of me, if it simply isn’t possible, perhaps I can begin to enjoy the journey of self discovery with greater consistency instead of always feeling as though I’m failing by never reaching the end.

Climbing into bed later that night, I notice the heart monitor band and am reminded of the competition. A competition that was intended to motivate us to begin a healthier set of habits by providing accountability and camaraderie. A competition I became so focused on winning, I failed to find any joy or value in the journey.

But with nine days left of the challenge, maybe it’s not too late to change that.

by

Sizing Up

In the dressing room, I grab the pair of jeans from the hanger and begin to pull them on. Too tight. I can’t get them over my thighs let alone my hips. I toss them to the floor and grab the next pair, checking the label.

Honestly, I grabbed this larger size by accident and now here I am putting them on, I remark to my unimpressed reflection. I shimmy into them, tucking in a bit of extra here and there. The button falls a little short of closing. I stand up straighter, suck my stomach in. Success. They close. I love the color of them. They have just the right amount of distressing. They are just what I’m looking for.

But can I sit in them? I move toward the dressing room bench in the corner apprehensively, and begin to lower down.

I feel the jeans pull tight across my thighs. The waistband cuts uncomfortably into my midsection but, still, I’m sitting without the button coming loose.

I can’t believe the size of these jeans. I can’t go bigger. I’ve never been that size. Maybe these will loosen up as I wear them, give me some breathing space.

I pull the jeans off and put them in my “maybe” pile.

Then, I reach for the cute dress. It looks perfect for a dinner I have coming up.

It should fit. It looks flowy and forgiving. And the color is to die for.As I pull it over my head I realize my error. I’m stuck. The fabric has less give than it appeared. I twist and turn, yank and pull, feeling a small seam rip. But finally, it’s on.

I look like a stuffed sausage. How does this not fit? And can I get it off again? I make a mental note to skip lunch.

After trying on several more items, I am thoroughly defeated. What began as a shopping trip to find something new and fun for an upcoming girls’ weekend quickly became a downward spiral of self loathing.

“Find anything that works?” asks a perky sales associate as I emerge from the dressing room.

“Not today,” I mumble back.

As I merge into the crowded mall, I match my footsteps to my thoughts. Too big. Too lazy. So flabby.

But then, I catch a cute jumpsuit in the next store window. Pause. Fight with my inner critic who tells me it’s too risky, that it will never look good on me. Defiantly I grab one anyway and head for the dressing room.

Here goes nothing. I pull the jumpsuit on, sliding it over my hips and up onto my shoulders. It’s way too big.

I twist around to try and see the label in the mirror. It’s the same size as the other place. What the heck?

Feeling my mood improve, I head back to the rack for a smaller size. Minutes later, the size down is also too big. Thrilled, I return for a size I couldn’t dream of wearing. Soon I’m twirling in the mirror, giddy with excitement. I’ve never been this size! I don’t love the color but I must buy this.

Yet as I change back into my clothes, I stop. I didn’t miraculously lose three sizes walking a few steps between stores.

Why am I so willing to let a number on a piece of fabric dictate my mood when the numbers clearly aren’t consistent? Maybe I’m not always the one to blame when something doesn’t fit. Maybe the blame belongs to the fashion industry for its lack of standards, or worse, for actively manipulating me. What if the numbers just don’t matter?

I remember the perfectly distressed jeans. And the cute, jewel-toned dress. I’d discarded them as the sizing numbers climbed too high even though they were perfect in every other way. I look back at the jumpsuit I don’t love but plan to purchase because of how its number tag makes me feel.

That’s it, I think as I hang the jumpsuit on the discard rack and head back to the first store. “I’m getting what I love, no matter what the tag says. After all, worst case, I do own a pair of scissors. That small tag doesn’t stand a chance.”

by

Charlie Brown

I adjusted my mask, wiping a bead of condensation off my upper lip with my tongue before settling it back in place. I felt my eyelashes flutter against the mask’s eye slits and began to count my blinks to pass the time.

“Oh look, it’s Charlie Brown,” Becky giggled. “Who’s in there? Is that you Josh? Mike?”

“It’s Sara,” came my muffled reply.

“Sara? I never would have guessed that! Why are you dressed as Charlie Brown? You should be a princess like the rest of us!” Becky squealed. I saw a flutter of glittery blue material as she twirled in front of me and felt a soft bop on my head before her twinkling wand broke into my line of vision.

I scratched the seams inside my shirt. The material felt rough, hot, and suddenly uncool.

“I hate Halloween,” I mumbled as I turned away and made my way to the back of the alphabetical line. Soon we would parade through the school to show off our costumes.

I shuffled shyly between Mark and Stacy through classroom after classroom listening to kids and teachers comment on various costumes. None of them were mine.

“I’m never dressing up again,” I whispered.

And I didn’t.

Until recently.

“We should get family photos,” my husband said one night, “to show our new blended family.”

I pictured the standard Montana family photo with a denim-clad family standing in a field using the mountains as a backdrop and wrinkled my nose.

“I don’t know babe,” I replied, “I’m game if we do something unique and different; everyone does the same thing here.”

“I’m up for whatever fun thing you come up with,” came his reply. “You will think of something. I know it.” I watched him fire off a quick email to a photographer friend before he settled in and fell asleep.

I lay awake in the light of Pinterest’s glow, scrolling with indecision and the pressure to find the right idea.

“What if you wore costumes?” came an errant thought hours later.

“I hate costumes.” I answered myself.

“Maybe it’s time to stop letting an old memory keep your fearful. Be brave.” the niggling thought pushed back.

“I suppose,” I admitted.

A few weeks later we stood in a graffiti-covered parking garage, steampunk costumes on, laughing together. From my top hat, to my gear accessories, to my fake leather pants and cane, I was completely out of my element.

“This is fun,” my stepson said, adjusting his mask.

“Yeah, good idea Sara,” my stepdaughter seconded. I smiled at them.

“Now, just pop your hip out Sara. Own it. Add a little flare, get into character,” called the photographer, bringing me back to the task at hand.

Her lights flashed, highlighting the word ‘thug’ scrawled in pink spray paint on the wall near me. I focused my gaze back at the camera.

“What the heck,” I said leaning on my cane and popping my hip to the side. “I’ll do it for you guys…and Charlie Brown.”

by

Boudoir Bravery

watermark2I set the last box in the trunk, shove it down, rearrange the tangle of Christmas lights and the bag of cardigan sweaters so the door will latch, and slam it shut.

“Well that might be overkill,” I mutter to myself as I look through the window to the overflowing trunk. “I probably didn’t need to take the whole house with me.”

Brushing a stray hair out of my face, I open the door and slide into the driver’s seat, feeling anxious to get going. As I reach to adjust my mirror, I notice the firefighter’s hat is blocking a good portion of my view out the back window. With a sigh I steal a quick glance at the dashboard clock and decide it will have to do.

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this,” I mumble to myself as I start the car. “It’s my blog’s fault, all this be brave not perfect nonsense. People can talk me into anything now.”

I hit play on a podcast, pull onto the street, and settle in for my hour drive.

My wedding is two weeks away and I’m marrying a groom who is notoriously hard to buy for. I had been wracking my brain for weeks for the perfect wedding gift idea to no avail. Out of ideas and nearly out of time, my friend Chris, talked me into a boudoir photo shoot — a hobby of hers and an idea so completely out of character for me I still can’t believe I’m actually going through with it. My car is packed to the roof with gizmos, gadgets, props, and outfits, anything I could find to hold in front of my jiggly parts.

“I should have done this in my 20’s, or my 30’s,” I think to myself. “Now I’m wrinkly, freckly, and a tad droopy in places. And that’s not even taking into consideration my ten divorce pounds.”

The road stretches before me and I try to distract myself with an inspiring podcast, hoping its wise words will calm my anxious nerves. Instead, I find my mind wandering to memories and messaging from my life that make today’s adventure so challenging. A whispered judgment in a locker room here, a demanding and glossy headline there. A touch of church propriety sprinkled on top. So much cultural messaging that shaped me into a woman who feels if my body doesn’t measure up to a perfect standard, it’s not sexy, not worth showing. And even if it is, perhaps I better run the idea by someone more pious. The thoughts swirl around, one after another, making my head spin. I try to catch them, address them, ignore them, admonish them, anything to quiet them. But these negative thoughts about my appearance are some of the most resistant. They’ve been with me the longest and are the thoughts reinforced every single day by news articles, tv shows, magazine covers, social media posts, and the world as a whole.

They form the core of my perfectionism.

As such, they are the messages I’m trying hardest to shake on this journey. The messages that keep me bound, afraid, and sitting on life’s sidelines instead of diving in, living life to the fullest, and forging my own brave path forward. So I set my jaw and drive, determined to address them today in a real way, hoping that by doing so, I take one big step towards altering my life’s course and freeing me from their tight and relentless grip.  

Eventually I arrive, pull up in front of her studio, and turn off the car. Catching my eye in the mirror as I check my hair and makeup I murmur, “You’ve got this. Tap into your inner sex kitten.” I laugh at my joke, knowing if there is such a thing inside me, it’s buried under a lot of baggage. My cheesy humor seems to calm my nerves.

The sound of my car door opening startles an antelope grazing nearby. His head snaps up as he assesses me, but he seems unconcerned with my presence and unimpressed by my hair and makeup, returning quickly to his grassy breakfast.

“Clearly he has no idea what’s about to happen,” I mutter.  

Having heard me pull up, Chris and her daughter, Meriah, emerge from the studio calling happy greetings. They’re excited about the project and anxious to help me unload and get started.

Chris and I have been exchanging ideas and images for a week in preparation, deciding what looks we’re going for, what props we need to pull them off. Their excitement should be contagious but so far my stomach remains a stubborn ball of nerves.

“Woah,” my awe escapes me as I cross the threshold and look around. “I wasn’t expecting this,” I say to my friend, leaning to set my armload down on a nearby chair.

The building is comfortable, welcoming. The initial sitting area colorful and warm, the dressing room fanciful and filled with props, jewelry, robes, and furry blankets. I run my fingers over those closest to me, taking in their textures and beauty. Through a nearby door, the studio itself is bright and inviting. My heart rate begins to slow as I take it all in.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Returning to the sitting area where my pile of stuff cascades across every surface, we begin to lay it out systematically, working through each look. We discuss a tentative order for the day, returning to the sample photos we’ve been exchanging as we strategize, matching poses with outfits. Eventually we are ready. Having stalled as long as I possibly can, I pick up the first outfit and excuse myself to change.

As I pull on each piece of the first look I whisper words of encouragement.

A stocking. “I can do this.”

The other stocking. “I am beautiful.”

Underwear. “I am perfectly imperfect.”

Bra. “I trust Chris to highlight the good, camouflage the bad.”

Garter. “My Kris loves me. He loves this body just as it is.”

Second garter. “It’s a good body, a healthy body.”

Earrings. “It has served me well for 43 years.”

Necklace. “I CAN do this. I need to do this.”

Stealing one last glance in the mirror I turn and open the door.

“Oh you look so good!” Meriah exclaims immediately as I step hesitantly back into the foyer. “Let me help you with the last hooks.” She moves to my side, no longer a stranger as she works to secure the clasps and hooks in intimate places I can’t reach.

“Champagne?” Chris asks, stepping towards me. “I find a sip or two makes the beginning a touch easier. But you’ll see, it will be great. We aren’t here to judge but to help you make something great. You’re beautiful and I’m going to capture that for both of you.”

I accept the glass from her outstretched hand and take a sip. The bubbles feel light and airy as they slip down my throat. I take another sip, smile at my friend. Thankful it’s her and not someone else with me in this moment.

There’s something raw, vulnerable, and intimate about posing in lingerie. And I’ve expertly dodged intimacy, rawness, and vulnerability for years; content to stay safely ensconced in logic, strategy, and my thoughts where I’m protected from failure and the judgement of others. Doing so has allowed me to appear perfect on the sideline much of my adult life. But I’m tired of the sideline, of watching others live life instead of living it myself. It’s why I’m on this journey, yet taking the first step remains challenging. Having a friend take it with me helps.

I swallow the last sip as Meriah slips the last hook in place and declares me ready. Chris reaches for her camera on the nearby counter and adjusts the lights in the studio space.  

“Be brave not perfect right?” she asks me.

I take a deep breath, look her in the eye, nod my ascent. “Be brave not perfect,” I reply, as I set my empty glass down firmly on the counter and step into the studio.

Cheers to taking the life journey together
Boudoir Bravery

To see more of my friend’s work or to reach her for your own session, visit: https://m.facebook.com/ChrisGentryPhotography/