Why is perfection so irritating?

If I had not watched my husband mix the dough, knead it, shape it and bake it, I wouldn't have believed he could produce such a perfect specimen.

I realise I am so lucky to have a partner who is willing and able to make a loaf like this, so why does it piss me off just a little bit? Only a tiny flaw, and his loaf wouldn't be able to lord it so much over my own less than perfect creations.

If I'd wanted perfect bread, I'd have married Paul Hollywood.