Perfect....?

Yesterday, someone told me that my life is perfect. Hmm. I don't know..... I guess I've never thought about it before. I mean, how do you define perfect? What kind of variables go in to this equation? I think it's probably a little bit more difficult than a simple 2 + 2 = 4 kind of thing. It's more like a giant word problem filled with triangles and letters and possibly a juice box. (I might explain that later. But don't get your hopes up.) But I want to examine why someone who only sees and knows me in certain situations and areas of my life would come to the conclusion that a highly flawed being like myself has a perfect life.

Maybe this person was referring to the fact that I generally have an intact family life. Lots of people struggle with internal family matters all the time, but me, I just get to lay back and say, "Hey! Look at my family! We all mostly like each other!" So I'll give this person that. But how would they know that? It's not like I broadcast my personal life to near strangers! Maybe they can read my mind.....

I can't imagine that this person thinks that I'M perfect. Not to overstep my bounds as a blog writer, but I'll tell you that my fingers are very crooked. I can't even put them together! I think it's from playing the flute, but my mom said this probably wouldn't happen. But she doesn't play the flute. And her fingers aren't crooked. So logic would dictate a certain conclusion. Oh well. Also, my eyebrows and eyelashes are slowly turning white. It's like I'm going prematurely gray at 17!!

AND! And my juice box drinking skills are very very poor! (I told you I might explain.) See, every time I have a delicious juice box, the straw will never come off the box. So half the time, I tear a hole in the box before I even start! Then, if I manage to remove the straw, I can't get it out of the wrapper. I don't know about you, but I can't magically absorb juice through plastic. And if I manage to get the straw out, almost without fail, I stab it through the back of the box. Then we have to whole mess of juice spraying everywhere all over again. So sad.

Yes. This is moving away from actual life imperfections. But those are the fun ones. However, I've been told I talk in my sleep. I know I do. I'd be embarrassed if I ever remembered what I'd said. But talking in your sleep opens up a whole new realm of your life. If you ever want to know something personal about someone, creepily watch them sleep and hope they start babbling. What if I recorded what I said in my sleep? How much would I learn about myself?

Also, I'm quite terrible at geometry. It's because I can't draw triangles. I'll leave it at that. Use your imagination.

So really. Just because your life is absent of terrible, terrible problems, it doesn't mean it's perfect. Someone somewhere probably said something to the affect of, "Nothing's perfect." But how do we know something's imperfect if we've never experienced perfection? What if perfection doesn't mean what everyone thinks it means? We should change our definition of perfect to something more realist. Something simple. Everyone could get to pick their own definition. I'd pick something like, "Perfect is orange." So, anything that is orange is now perfect. So that means that my life is pretty perfect because I have a lot of orange things. Excellent.