I pulled up to my girlfriend’s house the other day and I was
feeling really good about my accomplishments for the day. I had managed to
brush my teeth (even floss) and I actually got out of the house with matching
earrings for once. I hate to admit I have made that mistake more than once.
Anyway, I checked in the backseat to be sure that I didn’t forget to take a kid
to school and so far, so good, although I did notice that the juice box had
fallen out of my son’s lunch…hardly a tragedy. My makeup was on my face (ok, I
put some of it on at stop lights, but it still counts) and I was ready to start
my work day. This was a good day.
I had to stop by my “shall remain nameless” friend’s house
(mostly because I now hate her) to pick up some things for an event that we
were doing together. I had not been to her house before, but I knew it was
probably nice. She is almost always dressed impeccably with a fantastic
wardrobe. I thought she was just really fashion conscious, I was not expecting
what I found. At only 8:00am, she was completely put together from head to toe,
her kitchen was already clean from the morning breakfast and lunchbox
preparation and her house was truly immaculate. I mean, I could have dropped
yogurt on the floor and felt comfortable enough to get down on all fours and
lick it up. Ok, maybe comfortable is not a good word, but you get the point.
In my mind, I was thinking “she must have a maid and a
nanny” and as if she could read my thoughts, she quickly pointed out how “she
just finished getting everything cleaned up” and how “she was just too picky to
let someone else do it.” So next I
thought “her husband must really help out a lot” and again as if she knew what
I was thinking she told me that her husband leaves the house first thing in the
morning and does not get home until late evening. Dang. She works (not full
time, so score one for me) and she has children, her house is clean, her nails
are done, her hair looks great, her clothes are pressed (and not just thrown in
the dryer on the de-wrinkle setting), there is no dust on her picture frames (I
don’t trust anyone that doesn’t have dust on their picture frames) and the real
kicker is; her car looks brand new inside…..I really hate her.
Suddenly, my accomplishments began to feel so meager. I
needed to make some adjustments, step up my game. It was like a competition and
I hate to lose. So, I finished my work in record time, drove to the car wash
and paid them extra to remove the half-eaten lollipops and goldfish or whatever
the heck was pasted to the seats. The manager came to me twice to negotiate
saying something like “we never expected
to find…”. After that, it was off the nail salon. I was gonna win this thing.
Half way through my manicure, I noticed the time and realized I left one of my
children at school. I ran out of there with nails that looked like I was too
lazy to remove the polish and too cheap to get them professionally done as only
seven of them were finished. As I drove
through traffic like a mad woman, it began to rain. Of course it would rain. I
haven’t washed my car in two years and it hasn’t rained in almost that long so
it was destiny.
I arrived at the school and really began to panic. I didn’t
see her anywhere. Where could she be? I rummaged through my bag for my phone
with my tacky, now completely smudged nails. Then it hit me. It was my
husband’s day to pick her up. Dang.
I really stink at this “being perfect” thing. It’s not me. I
am chaos and superhero all wrapped into one. My kids love that I will do
anything in my bare feet. I will dance in the mud and you can’t do that with a
fresh pedicure. I wear a dress and heels all day. I want to be in jeans and
flip flops at night. My kids know that I am their champion. I will attend every dance practice, volunteer
in the classroom, but there will always be a towel on the bathroom floor at the
end of the day. I will wake up early, pick out clothes, make lunches, get
myself ready, but there will always be a dish in the sink when I leave. I will kiss boo boos, hug away sorrows and
turn on lights to scare away monsters, but I will probably forget to wash your
favorite shirt once in a while.
So, I guess I am not dang perfect, but I am dang original. I
think that is better.
P.S. I still hate “shall remain nameless” just because. She has to have some flaw, like irritable
bowel syndrome or something, so I will just hold on to that.
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