“Perfect” and I don’t get along too well. Rather we share an enmity that sometimes is much volatile than the rapport we share with our neighbours. So whenever everything around me is just the way I wanted, I tell myself that how can everything fall perfect?
Ever since I could remember, I had to slog for simple things like finding the correct size for my flat footed feet. The embarrassment reached its crescendo when one harassed sales guy advised me bluntly to stop my feet from growing further otherwise I could soon be shoeless. Now, our civilization has progressed to setting foot in the moon but how to control the growth of my feet is not within the perimeter of human knowledge (feel free to correct me if I am wrong).
Incidents were plenty like every time a hard earned vacation was planned, permission seeked and tickets booked. In other words, things were perfect to take a break. The very next moment I did find rashes surfacing on my otherwise smooth skin. Such were the outbursts that I was bed-ridden for a month or longer with measles making sure that the only sight I get is from the forlorn window of my bedroom.
My tryst with the idea of perfect is a saga that’s far from over. But the only thing that has changed over the years is my attitude. So when everything seems to be perfect and fall in place, I fail to savor the moment. Rather I keep my mind on the alert mode, reminding myself to expect the unexpected. After all my life is far from perfect.
