From my friend Jennifer over at Getting Down with Jesus (http://gettingdownwithJesus.blogspot.com) – a great thought for all us perfectionists!!
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For two years straight, I didn't smile with an open mouth. More accurately, I tried not to.
I had a mouthful of crooked, crowded teeth. Imagine a picket fence rearranged by a wildly errant bicyclist -- or a Mack truck. That's what my teeth looked like. Or that's what I thought anyhow.
I had postponed orthodontic care for years, because in my heightened state of teenage self-awareness, braces seemed even more unattractive than crooked teeth. I didn't want to trade in my picket fence for barbed-wire. That's what we perfectionists do in America, The Land of Just-So. We weigh our options, deciding which one -- in the end -- will make us look best.
By my junior year of high school, I gave in. Which meant that I would be wearing braces for my senior pictures. Which meant that I would, under no circumstances, open my mouth to smile for the photographer.
(Though, somehow, I had no trouble wearing three-inch tall bangs and acid-wash jeans.) 
For as long as I can remember, I've been a high-achieving, approval-seeking people pleaser. Back in sixth-grade, I first hear the word "perfectionist." My English teacher wrote me a note that served as a harbinger.
"You have a perfectionist quality in you that I so often see as a great asset," she wrote. "Beware of it, however, and try to always view things with an open mind. After all, there will always be tomorrow."
Trouble was, I wanted to be the best TODAY.
Try, try, try as I might, I never felt I was the best at anything. That's what perfectionists in this practice-makes-perfect culture do. We race past the goal of achieving excellence, in a vain search for being number-one.
Truth is, I've never been a superstar anything. There's always been a better writer, a better student, a better cook, a better adjunct journalism professor.
Not-Good-Enough can shackle. It can keep a perfectionist sidelined, with her lips pursed tight so no one sees the crooked mess she really is. Our just-right mantra is this: "If I can't do it right, then I won't do it at all."
But in the midst of my own "I-can't," I have been learning the art of "Oh, yes He can." Perfection is so yesterday.
I guess you could say I'm in recovery. I'm not cured, but I'm letting go -- shedding perfection like a 1980s hairdo. For years, friends of mine have picked a word to define their year. Just one single word.
For the first time ever, I've got mine. For 2011, my word is this: Imperfect.
Roget's synonyms for the word "imperfect" sting hard. I typed the word into the online thesaurus. Up popped these words:
Below par.
Broken.
Damaged.
Defective.
Disfigured.
A schlocky, two-bit dud.
Oh yeah, Roget?
Well, get this: My Creator sees imperfect,
flawed,
broken
me,
and He declares me good. Very good.
It's almost 2011. This recovering perfectionist is clinging to a God capable of delivering her from the curse of Not-Good-Enough.
In Christ, I am free to be me.
I am still going to do my best, because God wants us to be people of excellence for His glory.
But when I fall short of perfection (and I know I will) I'm going to laugh at myself more, cut myself some slack, and risk falling flat on my face (or flat on my back) in the name of adventure. And I am going to put on some big, bug-eyed glasses -- and maybe even a pair of cheesy acid-wash jeans. I'm going to open my mouth wide, throw my arms wildly to the sky and I'm going to SMILE. 
(Mom and Dad -- Thanks for the paying the ortho bills.) "Am I now trying to win the approval of men, or of God? Or am I trying to please men? If I were still trying to please men, I would not be a servant of Christ."
-- Galatians 1:10 
Each Wednesday, I join Ann Voskamp for her Walk With Him Wednesday series. This Wednesday, she asks us to name the New Year. What's your word?
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