“Where my foot falls, I leave a mark, whether I want to or not.” – John Patrick Shanley

As I write this I am sitting on a plane, flying to Toronto. I have a plan to call my mom when I arrive at the Toronto airport and tell her – voice laced with unbearable guilt – that I somehow slept in and missed my flight. “I don’t know how it happened,” I’ll say as I let my breath become overtaken with panic.

I don’t know why I feel tempted to play that sort of prank, but I do. I guess, depending on the kind of person you are, you might find this incredibly funny or not funny at all. Regardless, I assure you that I am a terrible lier, and my lie will probably be interrupted by the intercom warning “last call for flight…” etc.

Pranking is not in my nature. There is a confidence involved in teasing someone; a surety in your status as ‘person with the ability to tease and get away with it.’ I did not grow up with that sort of confidence.

Growing up, I had a people pleaser personality of sorts…

I grew up being called Christina on a far too regular basis – because I guess it just made sense for both daughter’s names to end in an “a” (even though I was the oldest and my “e” should have been the precedent). My mom was the one who always corrected them.

A couple of years ago this came up somehow in conversation.

“I always hoped that ‘you’ would be the one to correct them” my mom told me.

I didn’t, because back then asserting my identity felt like an attack against the other person’s wellbeing and emotional health, and I didn’t want to embarrass them or cause them any emotional distress. It’s sort of hilarious. I want to reach back in time and comfort the girl who couldn’t even fight for her own name, but I know that I still struggle with this, so I wouldn’t have to reach far.

Still, I’m starting to find perfection draining. Daunting. Exceptionally ridiculous and, I’m recognizing more and more, depressingly futile. Perfection is desirable only to the perfectionist. To the rest of the world it’s both uninteresting and insincere. Who wants to go on a road trip with a perfectionist? Not me.

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On Monday I had a doctors appointment at a urology clinic. A male doctor was accompanied by an uncomfortably timid female nurse who mumbled instructions I had to ask her to repeat.

I was told to spread my knees like a butterfly as the doctor stuck a camera up my urethra and filled my bladder with water.

I got to watch on a screen. There was absolutely nothing wrong. I asked for more tests.

It’s hard to be perfect when being routinely jolted awake by the dull roar of imperfection – an overactive bladder. It’s vulnerable for me to share this, but as the doctor moved the camera around my bladder looking for bumps or something I felt myself becoming frustrated that there were no imperfections to blame. When I asked for more tests I wondered whether I was asking because I needed something tangible to be wrong, or because I had a sudden desire to fight for myself and my experience of the world.

I think it’s the latter. I think I’m learning how to fight for myself.

The timidity of the nurse bugged me. The way she stood felt like an apology. I wanted her to just do her job and tell me what to do. I wanted her to open her mouth and speak so I could hear her. I was already in a vulnerable position, and her weakness didn’t give me strength. I think I’ve thought that in the past: That by being weak I made others feel better somehow. That’s a lie. Weakness only gives strength to the type of person you wouldn’t want in your life anyway.

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Last week, while waiting to film a short film about Jewish Carolers (you can watch it here), I was approached by a man wearing a badge that said something about Jesus on it. He wanted to know about my day. How was I doing. I was feeling pretty good, but he wasn’t really being sincere. I had stopped. He was excited. His mind was five steps ahead – already reaching into his pocket to hand me a pamphlet about his religion and how it would be the answer I was seeking.

So, I told him I was an atheist. He seemed genuinely disturbed by my answer.

It wasn’t a people pleasing answer, it wasn’t the true answer, but asking it pleased me. Even in such a silly way, I realized that I liked saying the wrong thing. Saying the wrong thing – doing something different from what I normally would have done – gave me a burst of confidence that lasted the rest of the night.

Is that the draw of teasing? Is teasing a way that we harmlessly assert our power and test the impact that we are capable of making? Is teasing a way that we challenge the world’s desire for us to be perfect?

It’s strange: Perfection – shimming along the walls to avoid conflict, impact or criticism – seems both boring and desirable at the same time.

It’s also blatantly ridiculous. I’ve been listening to a lot of podcasts with male entrepreneurs. Their answers make me think that there’s a balance I haven’t quite figured out yet. They appear to seek perfection in their routines and in their health, but maybe it’s not perfection their really seeking but something else? But what? Or maybe it’s just perfection wearing a different coat. I aspire to have what they have, and it scares me that it will feel the same. That at it’s core they still desire to avoid the uncomfortableness that comes with being human.

When the plane touches down – after I order some pad thai – I’m going to call my mom and play my little joke. Writing this blog hasn’t made my motivation anymore clear. Basically, I just think it would be funny.

And if you’re like many of my friends you’re mind has probably gone here: ‘man this girl needs to chill the fuck out and smoke some weed.’

And I’ll politely smile and say ‘no thank you.’