The problem is we don’t like it. The problem is it freaks us out. The problem is we know what he really means when he says, “Keep smiling.”
To free perfectionists from the confining lines of their own brutal rubrics, we must stop revering them and see them for what they really are. We must redefine the perfectionist.
A candidate can appear nearly perfect on paper. But that doesn’t mean he’ll be the partner I was craving.
Every episode leaves me cringing, and I can’t help but imagine how the show would differ had it been written by someone who refused to settle for clichéd notions of gender conformity.
By promising to help me overcome my bikini fears, they imply that they understand my bikini fears.
Your perfectionism has become an illness, slowly poisoning you on your quest to have the perfect body, the perfect grade, the perfect résumé, the perfect outfit, the perfect credentials.
New Yorkers’ way of life could perplex anyone, but perhaps the transplant with the most to learn is the humble country bumpkin, a rare genus of American prevailing from the so-called Flyover States.
Being childfree involves a second person so rarely discussed: your partner. And it doesn’t matter if he sits on the bathroom floor with you for an hour, sharing your sobs, calling you beautiful and amazing. He wants a child. And you don’t.