Updated: April 23, 2021
Originally Published: Oct. 16, 2011
I’ve always had a fondness for what I call “life inspiration”: beautiful sunsets, the pages of Real Simple, and catalogues from Pottery Barn. The day Ikea releases its annual idea book? Forget plans—I’m all in! Even the Dixieline Lumber flyer or a catalog filled with flowing garments and Buddha-themed décor has satisfied my cravings. And now, with Pinterest, I have accessed a vast treasure trove of inspiration—everything from stunning flower arrangements to upcycled dresses and inventive pickling techniques.
Over the years, this life inspiration has taught me some surprising lessons. A recent issue of Sunset magazine suggested that every camping trip deserves a signature cocktail, ideally featuring craft bourbon that can only be ordered from a quaint little town in Oregon. I had previously thought a six-pack of beer, chilled in the river, was perfectly acceptable. But now, I see the light.
For most of my life, “well-dressed” meant ensuring my undergarments were not on display and my shoes actually matched. Now, thanks to the ironically named Real Simple, I know that my round-toe nude ballet flats are actually shortening my legs. Time to swap them out for pointy-toed versions—thank you for that invaluable insight! Just a half-centimeter illusion can change everything.
Then there’s my skin. After turning 40, my freckles were rebranded as “age spots.” Luckily, with a rigorous five-step regimen involving a chemistry set’s worth of ingredients, I can reduce their visibility. I might be unrecognizable without my “age spots,” but the glossy spread in the magazine convinced me it’s worth it.
Without this life inspiration, I would remain blissfully unaware that every electronic device in my home is a potential germ factory. After recovering from the disturbing thought of a grad student counting “fecal matter” molecules released into the air from each toilet flush, I realized how germ-ridden we truly are! Now, I dedicate two hours a week to cleaning my devices, instead of indulging in lazy pleasures like reading or enjoying a walk.
Once, I brought a haphazard assortment of fridge leftovers—half a carton of cherry tomatoes, some tortilla chips, and remnants of hummus—to a picnic with friends. But after consulting my life inspiration, I realized I needed to step it up. I should have brought pressed vegan banh mi or even set up a clambake with my portable smoker, all while surrounded by reclaimed barn-siding picnic tables and custom luminaria. Alas, I just had an old beach towel for seating.
The images in these magazines and catalogs are mesmerizing, and I find myself yearning for that lifestyle—everything from perfectly arranged throw pillows to the latest trendy ramen truck. In moments of weakness (let’s say, after a second glass of wine), I convince myself that preparing intricate meals (like homemade pea and mint ravioli that requires 13 ingredients yet only takes 30 minutes!) or sporting that $200 skirt will transform my life. This urge intensifies when my son tries to convince me he doesn’t need a shower, despite the unmistakable odor of bean burritos lingering in the air.
I dream of being part of that idyllic scene where a diverse group enjoys smoked duck and cocktails made with grapefruit and rosemary, all bathed in a golden sunset. But it’s an illusion, isn’t it? A fairy tale for adults. Sure, I could create that life if I quit my job, abandoned my hobbies, and kicked out the three messy humans I live with. But my job has its merits, I enjoy my pastimes, and I have a certain fondness for those three humans. Striving to recreate Pinterest perfection in the limited free time I have left is utterly exhausting.
So, I’m working on breaking up with the relentless pursuit of perfection. Like any good 12-stepper or seeker of inner peace, I’m starting by acknowledging the issue: My life inspiration keeps me spinning on a hamster wheel of doing, wanting, and buying, all in the name of unattainable perfection, which doesn’t bring me joy.
Next steps? I’ll ponder those after I whip up the fire-roasted poblano sauce for the enchiladas I spotted on a food blog that looked just right for tonight’s dinner guests. Baby steps, right? Baby steps.