I am flawed. Imperfect.
Shocked, aren't you? Yes. I can hear your gasps, your cries of disbelief.
I can't maintain a dress size for more than six months. I don't recall my original hair color. My complexion fries in sunlight and grows its own strawberries. I've more cottage cheese Costco dairy.
I have hobbit feet.
They have to be waxed regularly lest someone toss me a ring point me towards Mordor.
That's the psychical me, the outside me, the me that people see. Am I zen with my flaws? Erm. No. Am I aware that regular physical activity could solve the dress problem? Is it possible to put down the dye bottle and back away slowly? Could I become bosom beaus with a dermatologist? Yes, yes, yes. Will I? Who knows. Would any of it last beyond the 'new me honeymoon'? After this many years with these flaws, I can confidently say ... no.
Why not strive for physical perfection?
'Cause I have other standards by which I measure happiness. Personal satisfaction is derived from how well I succeed at goals I define. These matter more than external perceptions of how I should look, what I should be doing, and with whom I should be doing it.
Does personal satisfaction exclude physical perfection?
The sloth in me would very much like to say "yes" and leave it at that. Physical perfection is a myth. Experts can't agree on "healthy." Industry "standards" are more fickle than individual taste. Commerce depends on us looking outside ourselves for happiness. In short, "perfection" is someone else's definition.
Personal satisfaction is very real, very attainable, ... and personal.
Have I achieved my nirvana? No, but I'm getting there. It's not easy. It's not without frustrations, second-guesses, and WTFery. My quest is challenging enough that when I succeed, I'll know I didn't sell my dreams or myself short.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to wax my toes.