At a party last weekend, I talked for a moment with two friends who read the blog. The talk turned from my kitchen floor to Cindy Crawford — a natural progression, to be sure — with the end result being a suggestion to write about imperfection. Since these two friends may very well comprise 50% of this blog’s readership, I decided to give the people what they wanted.
You may be wondering how a discussion of my kitchen floor led to a discussion of a supermodel. (Are both wooden? Are both in need of a scrub? I know one is.) But it arose because of a Facebook post. Someone asked me how the painted floor held up in a household with a large dog, and I replied that it was pretty beaten up, but that it didn’t bother me; the house was old, and the well-loved look suited it. My friend appreciated the honesty of that comment, which immediately led to the recently published photo of Cindy Crawford, wearing a bikini and without the benefit of photoshop. She looked like a very beautiful 49 year-old mother of two — that is, the Cindy Crawford without the 1988 Cindy Crawford Sports Illustrated midsection. I appreciated the honesty of that photograph: It made her seem more human. And that is the beauty of imperfection.
We are all imperfect people in an imperfect world. Is that really such a bad thing? If nothing else, it takes the pressure off. We try. We fail. We try again. Life becomes a dance of two steps forward, one step back — but we all keeping moving ahead. And if you think about it, our imperfections define us as much as, or maybe even more than, the things we do right. The learning experience of a mistake lingers far longer than the brief uptick of a comparable victory. More to the point, I always joke that my house would be really nice if I didn’t have teenagers and a dog — but then it wouldn’t be my house since the teenagers and the dog are part of what makes my house my favorite place in the world. If I hadn’t been a pudgy kid, I wouldn’t be a funny adult. Bad vision led to my trademark glasses; an inability to tan led to religious sunscreen use; rock-bottom frugality led to my current wardrobe. The older I get, the more I become convinced that there are (almost) no wrong paths — just different paths, each one forged by a series of small triumphs, poor choices, split-second decisions, sheer dumb luck.
And the imperfections bring me closer to perfect. As I vacuumed tumbleweeds of dog hair this morning, I thought about what a small price it was to pay for having a loving companion happy to sit at my feet. As I woke up early both days this weekend to take a teenager to different obligations, I thought about how happy I was to be able to be there for her. As I grow older and slower and more lined, I think about how grateful I am to have survived the years, gained a little wisdom, and gotten a whole lot of perspective.
I had a delightful Thursday afternoon, almost perfect because it was so imperfect. I had to visit a client in jail — an experience that usually makes me thankful for having had so many things go right in my life. I then took the back roads from the jail in Darien to my daughter’s track meet in Hinesville, without the aid of GPS but with printed (and often unreliable) directions. As I drove along, I didn’t pass another car for over 15 miles, but I saw stands of pine trees that reminded me of where I grew up. Hawks circled overhead. I felt slightly lost most of the time, but I felt equally certain that if I got truly lost, I could stop at a house and ask for directions. As it turned out, I did get lost in Hinesville, but other drivers and a clump of high school students were there to help. I didn’t get to see my daughter run — a ferocious storm came out of nowhere — but I did get to spend a very pleasant hour driving home in the rain with her, the intimacy of a small car magnified by the storm.
Note that I could also tell this story by talking about how smelly jails are and driving through little hick towns and getting lost and being frustrated by going out of my way to see a track meet and then having to drive home in the rain. But I didn’t. I suppose, too, that Cindy Crawford could complain about the loss of her flat stomach, but I like to think that she looks at it, looks at her children, and realizes that she came out way ahead in that trade. Because when you embrace what you have, however imperfect what you have may sometimes be, it feels almost perfect.
ALC
P.S. — Thanks to my friends who suggested this topic. I really enjoyed thinking about it.