Pobody’s nerfect, or so they tell me
TSHEPPARD he first sign of my own imperfection is that I can’t, for the life of me, remember who used to say that all the time. If it was you, please forgive me. My memory isn’t what it used to be.
When you Google the definition of perfection, you’ll be surprised to find that even the dictionary description allows for just how perfectly elusive this state of nirvana really is. “The condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.”
One of the things I have learned over the years is that one person’s version of perfection is often very different from another’s, and sometimes that knowledge can hurt. I have two stories from my childhood that come to mind, and they both involve roller skates.
When my sister and I were young we had the most perfect neighbors, the Sims. I’m not kidding. Long before anyone even dreamed of the electronic game that allows you to create your ideal community, we had our own version right next door.
Our Sims family had two daughters who were similar in age to my sister and me and they proved to be the perfect playmates for each of us. Our mothers were dear friends who swapped recipes and Bible verses and our fathers were hunting buddies, which I imagine is about as close as you can get to best friends for men. Correct me if I’m wrong.
After just a few years of living this suburban dream, the Sims decided it was time to move back to family property in Hiawassee, to build the house they had always dreamed of. While the move curtailed our constant contact, it didn’t really dampen the friendships — just changed their location and timing. We would often drive up to visit them for the weekend and boy did we have fun.
One of our (or at least my) favorite things to do when we visited was to take a trip to the dollar store. My bookshelves were littered with the little ceramic figurines that I would fall in love with on the cluttered shelves of the store. It was a little slice of heaven, in my mind. I always found something to love.
On one visit, my friend and I discovered a collection of comic T-shirts — you know, the kind they used to sell in the ’70s. I can’t find any reference to the character, but the shirt I fell in love with was a cheap white T-shirt with a short, round, bald man (kind of like Ziggy, but not) and it said “Cold hands, warm heart.” We were excited about plans to visit the local roller rink that evening and were sure that our new dollar store T-shirts were going to make us the coolest chicks in the place.
My mother gently pointed out that I had much more flattering shirts to wear, but I was sure she had no idea what she was talking about. I mean, she was old and her understanding of modern trends was clearly offtarget. I was sad to later learn that my friend agreed with my mother’s perspective. My vision of the perfect skating attire was a little different from theirs. I wore it anyway, unable to give up on the illusion, and I don’t recall being noticed for good or bad by a single person there.
My perfection kryptonite has always been my abject awkwardness. I have learned to somewhat mask as I have aged, but it took me a long time to get there.
Several years after the first skater fashion faux pas, I was at it again, and this time there was an object of my perfectionist pursuits, the unsuspecting boy who had just moved in two doors down. When I first saw him I could tell he was older than me, which made him all the more appealing. I’d known the boys in my neighborhood long enough to have developed full knowledge of their exhausting shortcomings, and fresh blood was most welcome.
I knew it was important that I make a good impression, so the first thing I did was to plan the perfect outfit for my afternoon appearance on the street. It had to involve my roller skates — it was something I was really good at — and it had to involve my rainbow suspenders. I will never forget heading through the kitchen just as my aunt and uncle were arriving for a visit. My uncle took one look at me and laughed out loud. I can’t say that I blame him, but at the time I didn’t let it hinder me. I was sure he was just as clueless on fashion trends as my mother.
I wish I had a picture of me in my roller skates, knee-high athletic socks with red bands around the top, red athletic shorts with white piping, a white tshirt and my rainbow suspenders to complete the ensemble, with pigtails in my hair to boot. It turns out that it was a pretty iconic skater look at the time, but I know I looked ridiculous! But, in my eyes it was perfection. In my mind I was as free as possible from all flaws or defects.
Needless to say, no boys’ hearts were won that day. I was recently watching an episode of the show “Call the Midwife” and the narrator had the most wonderful line in closing out two stories of unusual romances. She said, “Perhaps, most of all, we are what we accept, what we allow to be important, what we embrace about each other and ourselves. There’s nothing better, there’s nothing more hopeful, there really is nothing else.”
Wouldn’t the world be a much nicer place if we learned to embrace each other’s humanness rather than focusing on fatal flaws? Pobody’s nerfect, after all, and we ought to learn to love the things that make us each imperfectly unique.