As far as I am concerned, I seem to have lost the map that points the
way to perfection. And strangely enough, it’s not a place I’m entirely
sure I want to visit. I’d probably embarrass myself by dropping the bone
china, staining the rug and having a beer too many.
I’m a Tom Waits fan. I can’t stand the saccharine sounds that ooze all over the pop charts. The ersatz emotions that crawl out of the woodwork with every hit make me instinctively reach for the bug spray. There is no way a sixteen year old with a syrupy voice and a roomful of managers, minders and make-up artists can have experienced the depth of emotion that the standard lyric claims. Oh no, baby. I don’t love you. Oh no.
On the other hand, Tom Waits sounds terrible. His vocal range stretches from the sound of someone who has just been punched in the gut, all the way to a hoarse shout. A lot of the time he also sounds as if he is tone deaf. Give me Tom Waits any day.
If the popular media stereotype or my taste in music is to be believed, I am a deviant. I am not slender, muscular, social, rich or young. That smug guy with an expensive car, designer home and a high-paying, high-powered job just isn’t me. Nor am I cheerful in the Prozac way that the media puts forward as normal. I always have something to worry about, and unhappiness sticks its head around the door more often than I would wish, even on those whom I despise.
The jury is out on my ambitions. I have so many opportunities and plans that I hardly know where to begin. The problem is I don’t even have time to go to the gym to start looking like a jet-setting entrepreneur, let alone time to reach out and seize the day, or even just to make a feeble grab at it. The little spare time that I have is divided between my family, a bit of writing, reading and my favourite hobby, sleep.
Somehow I don’t fit in to the media’s image of how things should be, and I definitely won’t make a great lyric for the next noxious pop diva.
According to popular media, perfection is a street address just around the corner. You arrive at it as you reach a specific age group. When you turn twenty, you get the aggressive look, the first job and credit card, and that’s not all. The beautiful young man or woman gets in step with you and without a backwards (or even sideways) glance, you become a poster couple for effortless hedonism.
At age thirty, you have it all, including the responsible position, grooming and picture perfect family. Strangely enough, dogs arrive at your door house-trained so your carpets look great, and the cat doesn’t claw holes in your leather sofa.
So it goes until you retire, probably at fifty, with investments that allow you to decide that Stockholm is where you want to be next Tuesday. You spend the rest of your life squandering your kids’ inheritance on a really good life and dandling well-adjusted grandkids on your knee.
As far as I am concerned, I seem to have lost the map that points the way to perfection. And strangely enough, it’s not a place I’m entirely sure I want to visit. I’d probably embarrass myself by dropping the bone china, staining the rug and having a beer too many.
I have a strange appreciation for imperfection, and I get a delayed sense of fulfillment from being able to say, “Been there. Done that. Have to remember never to make that particular mistake again.”
The problem with perfection is, on closer inspection, the glossy surfaces are little more than graceless plastic. You won’t find dents, stains and scratches that tell of a life well used and the satisfaction of looking back on a learning curve you have ascended. As some ancient Greek said, “You can’t enjoy being at the top of the hill without having climbed it.”
I’m a Tom Waits fan. With hoarse words and hard shouts, he sings poetic stories of missed opportunities, sad hindsight and moments of despair. He reminds me that perfection is not a foregone conclusion, nor something that I should feel inferior about for not having attained it. He reminds me that the only true measure of perfection is the imperfection that counterpoints it.
Ignore the stereotypes. Ignore the pressures to keep up with the Jones’. Feel free to go out and make a mistake. Look back and learn. You don’t have to be perfect. Be what you are.
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