Done not Perfect.

A very short story.

Her therapist told her not to get hung up on perfection. The opposite of done is perfect, she’d said, and Monica wasn’t sure if that was the actual quote but it got the point across and kept her from feeling guilty popping the top on a craft IPA before strapping on her Peloton shoes. A key ingredient in any good alcohol, Drew had once said, is water. Hydration, shoes, headphones, bike, check.

Perfection had never been a stated goal and, of course, if you asked Monica she’d tell you she wasn’t anxious, had never been anxious, doesn’t even really know what anxiety feels like. But the last time she’d seen her sister and brother, at Thanksgiving two years ago, they’d all laughed and held their hands out in front of each other. Every nail bitten down to the quick. It’s awkward, Mel had said, serving coffee from behind the bar when you have to curl your finger tips under so no one sees the carnage. Imagine standing up in the board room, Drew had butt in, and needing to shake hands and seal a deal but just offering a weak fist bump instead. Monica had glanced at her own lanky fingers with the cuticle, nail, and skin around the nail all shredded by her absentminded picking or gnawing at her own fingers. Done, she figured. Definitely not perfect. But she’d read in Psychology Today that nail biting was a sign of perfectionism and she’d seen it play out in herself — any little…