By Jane Porter I write the majority of my books sitting in coffee houses, usually at one of the Starbucks or Tully’s close to my house in Bellevue. Bellevue’s fairly swanky as cities in the Pacific Northwest go. Great schools, glitzy malls, elegant libraries. It’s a great place to raise kids and a great place to be a woman, particularly if you’re one of the women that don’t have to work but can afford to be home with your kids.   I’m a single mom, so I work. But even when I was married, I worked, wrote, because I need something to do with myself or I end up self-destructive.   But sitting in coffee houses and watching the local moms come and go isn’t always great for self-esteem.

These moms look fabulous. And they’re busy, arms laden with binders and leather totes and lap tops for their meetings with other moms. I listen as they talk. They’re PTA presidents and Auction Chairs and School Board Members. They have full plates and full lives and they look sensational, too.

I envy them and suck in a breath, feel the roll of fat against the waistband of my jeans. The roll is getting bigger not smaller. I’m not working out as much as I used to. No longer a trim 6 or a physically fit 8, my weight creeps up and my confidence drops again. How can my body define me so much? How can the size of my jeans make me feel so vulnerable? I’m smart. I’m successful.

Aren’t I?

Mrs. Perfect, the follow up to Odd Mom Out, is a result of this life of mine, with these doubts and questions and insecurities. I wonder if other women have the same insecurities. I wonder if other women have more confidence, self-acceptance. I try hard to be good to myself, try to be kind but somehow, its easier to be kinder to other people. Easier to be kinder to strangers than myself.

Those women look fabulous for their age.

Those women look sharp and stylish.

Those women.

Whereas me. Well, I could be better. I should be better. But to be better, I’d have to be nearly perfect.

Ah. Perfectionism. A fairly bitter pill, isn’t it? It’s pretty much impossible to be perfect but for reasons I don’t understand, it’s what I think I should be.

And I’m not alone. I look around me, open a magazine, turn on the tv and there is the quest for perfection in every store, every ad, every photograph. Men don’t have to be perfect. So why do we?

Indeed.

Why do we?