by Sandra Bark
It’s too much. I’ll never be enough.
Perfect teeth, perfect grades, perfect posture. All of that implicit hyperbole!
Perfect makes a liar out of us, every time.
Perfect makes me think of the man I saw in Jamaica at dawn, at the shore. His job at the resort was to rake the seaweed out of the ocean so it wouldn’t bother the guests. How perfect is that?
So good-bye, perfect. I’m through.
Because as it turns out, I am not perfect, not at all.
Sometimes I am generous, but sometimes I am selfish. Sometimes I am thoughtful, but sometimes I only consider myself. Sometimes I am funny, but sometimes I laugh at dumb signs like the ones in the 80s that said, Welcome to our ool. Notice there’s no p in it. Let’s keep it that way.
My downward dog is not perfect. My attitude is not perfect, and neither is my diction or the way I make the bed.
I did not score perfect SATs or GREs.
I am not a perfect size 8 or 6 or 4 or 2.
I am not a perfect ten.
I am not always patient, not always grateful, not always gracious. I can get cranky, snappish, hangry. I say no when I should say yes. I say yes when I should say never, no thanks, go away please.
Sometimes I Om off-key.
Still: I make it to yoga. I make an excellent frittata. I make it a point to try to be nicer, kinder, more patient.
But I’ll probably never execute a perfect scorpion, and I really couldn’t care less.
Welcome to my erfect. Notice there’s no P in it. I’m going to keep it that way.