I am not perfect. I used to spend a lot of time thinking about perfection. I have always liked the number 100. I had theories on numerology and physics and astrology and nutrition that would lead to 100 and therefore perfection. I drank 100-proof vodka, I hovered around 100 pounds (in my clothes), and I checked the locks on my doors 100 times a day. Once, I shared those thoughts with my therapist, who responded, "I think it's time we thought about commitment." I thought we were moving too fast. I was not ready to be committed anywhere. Instead, she gave me a book on mindfulness and perfection.
The book informed me that perfection was perfectly impossible. Confused, I pondered this thought. At first, I took it to mean that I was already impossibly perfect and it's damn hard to improve on that. Then, I thought that perhaps it meant that it wasn't possible to polish a turd. Now, I just spend a lot of time working of self-improvement.
I work so hard on self-improvement that it looks effortless. That is part of the beauty of it all. I am constantly working and yet, I make it appear as though I am effortlessly wasting away my time here on Earth drinking and shoe shopping. That would be a false assumption. Clearly, I am a much deeper being. Take yesterday for example.
Yesterday, I learned how to make coffee. I own a single serving French press and I make coffee in it once a month because coffee is like crack to me and Lord knows that I don't need anything that makes me any more hyper. I made my first pot of coffee yesterday. I used a filter. I estimated the amount of coffee. I filled the reservoir past the fill line and had to mop up the water that spilled out of the overflow spout in the rear of the machine. Still, I pursued. Ten minutes later, I had coffee. It was hot and it was strong and it was good. I drank four cups because I like hazelnut CoffeeMate and it is 25 calories a serving and 100 calories is perfect.
Satisfied with my achievement, I volunteered to walk Jamie's chihuahua, Ozzie. I walked Ozzie 89 nearly perfect steps before he took a sh*t. Prepared with a plastic bag, I picked up the tiny perfect dog crap. We walked an additional 11 steps before I picked Oz up, so as not to disturb the perfection of the entire situation. Carrying Oz and a plastic bag stolen from the produce section, I was the picture of a perfectly responsible dog walker.
At the end of my day, I reviewed all that I had accomplished. I made coffee. I picked up crap. It was a perfect day.
I called Mom to tell her about my success. Mom is always happy to about my strides toward self-improvement. I told her about the coffee and about how responsible I was in dealing with the crap.
Mom sighed, "it sounds like you're ready for marriage," she said.
I know Dad likes coffee, but I never knew that he had a bowel problem.