I’ve never considered myself a perfectionist.
I didn’t think it was a gene my messy, fun-loving family possessed.
While growing up, B-average grades were regularly praised.
Our home answering machine message was a secondary rhyming “family rap” in which we all wrote a line and ended with an exuberant “oh yeah!” No one found this embarrassing.
Outfits for family pictures were coordinated with a request to wear any shade of “purple pastel.” Naturally, interpretations varied.