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Perfection
Is Overrated
Women of the world, call off the search. The elusive
perfect man has been in captivity for some time now. I should know. I'm
married to him and didn't even know it. He pays the bills on time. Never
forgets a birthday, anniversary or any other holiday that's normally occasion
to point the accusatory finger. This Valentines Day, he gave me a computer
generated, six page card with a string of pictures of my favorite glam
rock group romantically tied together with a clever verse. Oh, and then
there was the annual bouquet of two-dozen roses. Was this a plot to destroy
me by allowing my guilt to rot from the inside out? And what did I get
him? A video dedication of my favorite David Bowie song on Classic VH1
that never aired, that's what (really, what says "I love you" more than
being serenaded by the thin white duke?). I mail ordered a ham for Thanksgiving
that has yet to appear. As far as I know, Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa
are enjoying my honey ham on an island somewhere in the South Pacific.
Christmas was worse. He gave me, among other things, an expensive iPod
with my very own account already in place. He even downloaded some of
my favorite songs beforehand. My gift to him? Tools. A 68 piece socket
wrench set. But the wrench is being put to good use since he's a regular
Mr. Fix-It. Yep. Married to the perfect man. And it sucks.
No woman of average intelligence and talents deserves a man like this.
I most certainly don't. For starters, I am a petty and jealous troll of
a woman with absolutely no patience. A short time ago, I met one of my
husband's female co-workers at a company function. Naturally, I figured
she had designs on my perfect man. As his wife, it was my duty to inform
her that she'd been made, right? I shook her hand and told her to wait
right there. I was searching for something to slice her throat with and
I'd be right back. Was my perfect husband upset? Of course not. How infuriating!
Along with being the most jealous woman on earth, I'm also the keeper
of the double standard. I let it be known daily that I'm in love with
a number of men that are not my husband and wouldn't hesitate to leave
him for one of these semi-talented matinee hunks.
What's the complete worst part of being yoked to a perfect man? Hearing
about it second hand. His coworkers are masters at this, as well. One
called about a week ago.
"Can I speak to--?"
"Um, he's not here."
"Is this his wife?" the man asked breathlessly.
There it was. In an instant, I became a celebrity by proxy. I winced against
the flood of compliments. "Your husband is so great! He's easily the best
pilot in the unit! He's so accommodating! He's so smart! You're lucky
to have a man like that." Of course they're all right. Who wouldn't want
a man whose very existence makes you want to hang yourself? I bet he pays
them to do it. I certainly would. Did I mention I was petty?
The width and breadth of his perfection know no limits. Relatives on both
sides of the Atlantic are more than willing to regale me with tales of
his brilliance. Even his mother never misses an opportunity to rub my
nose in my own normalness. Apparently my husband backstroked across the
whole of the English Channel, read the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe
and sang with the London Philharmonic all before he was potty trained.
My elation at my son's prowess in preschool is naturally a non-event.
"Your husband went to English school. English schools are the finest in
the world, you know", she says. What fool ever doubted as much? Incidentally,
any and all intelligence my little chick-magnet possesses was passed down
from his father. In fact, I'm sure if you left my husband alone with a
biology book and a bowl of Fruit Loops, he could master the art of hermaphroditic
reproduction.
We recently bought a house. I use the word "we" liberally, as I put in
exactly zero dollars toward the payment. My husband's hobby is to sit
atop his pile of money and watch as it collects dust and interest. Me?
I spend as if I may die tomorrow (which, given somebody's law of averages,
is quite possible), as is prominently displayed by my shameless use of
overdraft protection. You spent our rent money on a vintage Gucci doctor's
bag? No problem. You want to watch the Home Shopping Network all night?
Sure. YouÊscreamed "Sock it to me, Vin Diesel" at the most inconvenient
time? Ah well, stuff happens, right? I was thinking maybe I would take
out a want ad to gauge what the alternative was. Wanted: the most imperfect
man in the world. An impetuous scallywag with a wandering eye. A barbarian
who picks at the dead skin on his feet at the dinner table. A man who
gives dying flowers for Valentine's Day and a man who is willing to forget
my birthday.
Sadly, my husband is completely unaware of just how perfect he is. In
fact, one of his many redeeming qualities is his unfailing support of
me. He delights in informing his friends when my latest article appears
on Tuppenceworth. He's even talked about writing something of his own.
When he finally does put pen to paper, the fruits will undoubtedly be
a one thousand page opus that will win him the reverence of the world's
intelligentsia and the Nobel Prize for Literature. And I will have no
choice but to love him for it..
by
Keisha Poiro
23rd March 2004
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