Perfection exists only in one place: our imaginations. For some it's imagining how perfect life would be if only a couple details could be conveniently revised. But more often I think it's us not paying respect to the complexities of other people's lives and assuming they have a perfect life.
Contrary to popular belief, work is a gift from the Gods, not something to dread. Maybe your 'job' is something you dread, but that doesn't mean you dread 'work' existentially. You simply haven't been able to figure out how to make your 'work' your 'job'. Without work we'd fall victim to the worst thing possible: a boredom addiction.
Imperfection is a sign that there's still work to be done. Still life to live. Still drops to squeeze out of the gift.
There is no perfection for the 'I'. We might imagine the 'future us' or 'current others' as having perfection, but even if we were to match our lives to these imaginations, we wouldn't find things to be perfect. No matter what heights we might reach, we will always hunger for more. Just as you will never cease needing food so long as you live. Imperfection is the existential calories to your existence. It is what being alive is.
Perfection is a beautiful thing not in itself, but beautiful in the purposeful person's imperfect pursuit of it.