Imperfect, Rough, Broken.
I often identify myself this way. Things were never easy at home. Dad and Mom, working professionals themselves back then were always asking for nothing more but perfection from us. They both migrated to the city from small towns, worked their way up the corporate ladder, sacrificed pleasures so that they could afford to raise us up and give us opportunities they didn’t have.
We were taught to be nothing short of the best in everything (academics, hobbies, skills, characteristics, etc.), anything lesser would mean disappointments and punishments. I hated the dreadful PTM (Parent-Teacher’s Meeting) held twice a year because mom would always leave the meeting in tears, ashamed at the teacher’s remarks about me and I would be home to face the ‘rotan’, a.k.a. the wooden stick.
Looking back, no amount of ‘rotans’ were good enough to make me number 1. I tried, but somehow I’ve always fell short.
Fast forward and I’m 30 now.
I love imperfections.
A good looking buttery and flaky tart with perfectly arranged pears would be amazing, but an imperfect, rough and (literally) broken tart is good too, in fact, beautiful, just the way I like it.