Imperfect Sense

I just received the best compliment ever from a reader. They dig me… because I’m not perfect. Yes, it’s about time someone recognized me for what I have been trying to say all along: I am an imperfectionist.

In fact, I come from a long line of imperfectionists.  It is an art that has taken generations to perfect.

I don't like "perfect", becuase it implies that it can never, ever be any better. And how depressing is that? It kinda means, what else do I have to live for? I'll just be let down from here on out because I've already seen the best... so, I might as well die. And I'm not ready to die, so long live imperfection I say.

If you didn’t know any better, you may be fooled into thinking that I am simply an accident prone perfectionist, but that really implies that my intentions were to be perfect; however, observe closely and you will appreciate the thought… or intentional lack thereof, that goes into making sure things do NOT turn out perfectly. 

For example: What is simpler than a cup of coffee? You pour it, stir in your goodies, grasp the mug, sip and enjoy. In fact, that description is complicating matters. Really… it’s a cup of freaking coffee, and it doesn’t take a lot of effort to execute drinking it perfectly. But, it DOES take a lot of effort to mess it up. Using my knowledge and expertise, I would choose to set the topped off coffee mug on a coffee table, because clearly that is what a coffee table should be used for. T.V’s and ledges are really top choice for coffee mug placement, but today I tried a coffee table. Go figure.

This next step is what sets the perfectionists apart from the imperfectionists: A perfectionist would only put their coffee mug on the coffee table, and nothing else; me on the other hand, would utilize my training and fling my feet on the coffee table too…thus knocking over the entire cup of coffee onto the rug, resulting in a full hours worth of clean up involving moved furniture, a roll of paper towels, and a wardrobe change. Did you know 10 ounces of spilled coffee can travel at least six feet in all directions? Steam cleaners were made for imperfectionists. A perfectionist would be horrified with this catastrophe… but an imperfectionist would almost be happy with how complicated such a simple thing like drinking coffee turned out to be. Mission accomplished.

Now umbrellas are a different story. Everybody knows that umbrellas are notoriously a much more complicated beast than a cup of coffee. They don’t open, they open too far and turn inside out, they poke people in the eye… they are just cumbersome and moody apparatuses. So, me having a story about an umbrella may not come as much of a surprise. But the way it happened was very surprising. Just so you know, the element of “surprise” is very important in the art of imperfectionism.

Nobody who lives in the rainy Pacific Northwest ever uses an umbrella. We just own fifty million raincoats or… get wet. Umbrellas out here are for wusses. But, we still own a bunch of them because out of town visitors think we are their big opportunity to bust out the ol’ “bumbershoot and wellies” and strut around in some real puddles.  And? Lucky likes to use them because “that’s what princesses use”. Remind me again what Disney princess carried an umbrella?

Lucky tried using the umbrella the other day and it didn’t stay up. I swore at it a million times and said a final “eff you” to it before folding it back up and putting it in my purse, which is where things go to die. There’s nothing in my purse that I ever use by the way. It’s just a portable garbage bag and a place to store my kid’s dirty socks when they decide to take them off in a restaurant.

So… for the first time in... forever, I had an umbrella in my purse…and my purse was sitting on the passenger seat in the car. I was driving and Bubb was in the backseat, talking non-stop and playing a video game, when lo and behold… the freaking umbrella explodes completely open like a horny peacock, blocking my view thru the windshield. I can’t imagine what this must have looked like to other drivers. I let out a scream and in a fight or flight response, manage to pull-over without any harm done. Shaking, I stop for a moment to catch my breath, and let out a nervous laugh followed by a lecture to the umbrella:  “What the f#*k?! You stupid piece of crap! We could've died! Holy shit. Ugh! You never, ever opened when we needed you to, and now you decide is your damn moment to … what the f#*?!”

Yes…mommy is yelling at an umbrella.

Of course, now I can’t get the stupid thing closed, so I wrestle my arms around it and crush it as hard as I can, listening to the frame crunch and snap. I felt like the terminator. Finally, I get to the point where I can partially shove the mangled up, possessed umbrella between the seat and the dashboard… and get back on my merry way, tootling along in my kid mobile like nothing happened. True sign of a seasoned imperfectionist.

All this time, Bubb is still talking and playing his D.S. He never skipped a beat. I started laughing uncontrollably...

“Mom, what’s so funny?”

“The whole umbrella thing. It’s kinda funny.”

“What umbrella thing?”

The child was completely oblivious. He had no clue about the fireworks that just went off in the car. I feel as if I have reached a whole new level with my quest for imperfectionism, as now my children have accepted these events as normal. That’s absolutely perfect in my book.