"Perfect"

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I want to not be "perfect". Oh, by no means do I believe I'm perfect. I'm decidedly imperfect, flawed even. I'm human. I do human things. I make mistakes, say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I fail quite often, more often than average. So, if I'm not perfect why do I not want to be "perfect"? After all, aren't I already there? Check it out - an unexpected success. 

Not quite. The difference lies within the quotation marks. You see, they say I'm "perfect", insist on it actually. Regardless what I do or how much I stress the inverse, they cannot be swayed. Stacee Harris is "perfect". Perfect for them? I always ask. No, "perfect" period. And that's when the gray clouds begin forming and I pull out the egg timer.

I can assure you with the absolute greatest certainty that my "perfect"
is not perfect for them. How do I know? The egg timer. Once I am deemed "perfect" I have the half life of a gnat. Click, click, click, ding. Bada bing, bada boom. I'm a goner.

I've determined over the years that one of two things happens (and maybe occasionally both) - 1. They begin to feel inadequate when they compare my "perfection" to their "imperfection". They'll never be good enough (mind you, they always are because I'm really not perfect). They worry that one day I'll figure out that they don't measure up (of course I don't own a measuring stick). Then they run. Or... 2. They begin to see that they were wrong; I'm not really "perfect" after all (well, duh). I've been set up to fail and I end up doing so with flying colors and a vapor trail (as I said before, I damn good at failure). Then they run.

I guess I'm different. I like perfect. I've spent much of my post-30 adulthood looking for it. When I find it, and I have on more than one occasion, I do everything I can to keep it. I don't pick it apart or worry about not measuring up. I'm pretty sure I see a different side of perfect that they do. Rather than some empirical ideal, perfect to me has more to do with imperfection than perfection. The perfect ones I have met are perfectly imperfect. They fit with me. We fit. In some crazy way our imperfections combine and create perfection. It's perfect really.

If I could have anything, I would want be seen as me - imperfect. And yet perfect at the same time. A perfect fit, a perfect love. I don't want to be "perfect" ever again. I want to be Stacee, flawed and failing. Minus the vapor trail, of course. And the egg timer.

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