Perfection

I would love to be perfect. Wouldn’t you? How divine it must feel to be pristine in every way. To have a body free of flaws, no ill health, no physical beauty marred by difference. A home spic and span, clean and gleaming in every sunlit room that smells like clean linens and hope.

A career with no hiccups, no errors, no stress. A romantic relationship that doesn’t require any work, or argument, or change. A healthy relationship with parents and family, where you don’t hold your breath or fight to bury a panic attack five minutes before a call, or upon receiving a text. Friendships that sail effortlessly across waves of time, no despair, no distance, no drama.

Clothes that always fit and look good. Shoes that never wear out or become uncomfortable. Every element of life molded to your existence.

Mood rings would always show that you’re happy and in love. The Magic 8-Ball on your nightstand, always answering in the affirmative. No bills or junk in the mail, just presents and the packages you ordered, never stolen by petty thieves.

Smiles from everyone who passes you by as you walk to the grocery store, to the bus, to the train, to the ferry, to the beach (because anyone who is perfect would never live more than 10 minutes from a warm, sandy shore).

Adoration from adults and children alike, because they see your perfection and interpret it as real living magic. No spam calls or phishing emails. Only happiness when you spend your daily half hour on social media to briefly peruse and not be swallowed whole by algorithmic demons.

Perfection, at the cost of not living life. What a dream it would be.