Growing up, I was a huge perfectionist. I needed to get straight As (because “Bs” on my report card obviously stood for “Blemish”, while “As” stood for “Awesome”). As an adult, I’m much better, but my perfectionism gets the best of me more often than I’d like to admit.
It was the spring of 2006, and like all procrastinating seniors in high school, I nervously thumbed through college pamphlets. I was on the hunt for the perfect college. For me, perfect meant “good enough” for someone with “okay” SAT scores, “okay” grades, and “okay” extracurriculars. Oh, and it had to be as far away as possible from the terribly provincial New Jersey town I was cursed enough to reside in.