Perfect People

Hello!

In June of 2009 my husband and I joined our local YMCA. We decided it was time to get in shape. Since then, every morning the two of us alternate our work-out times and go to the gym. Usually, he goes from 5 to 6 AM and I follow with 6 to 7 AM. This schedule works for us because of my husband's work schedule and the need for someone to be in the house while our nine-year old is sleeping. On weekends, my husband takes time off and I plod down to the Y. When either of us returns home from the Y, we chat about who was there and how busy the machines were and stuff like that.

Today was no different. After exercising, I walked in to our nice warm home and my husband inquired about the particulars. Knowing he was going to ask, I did a quick looksie around the gym prior to leaving to give him my report. Today, there were thirteen of us working out, three were women, and no one we knew.

After he left, I got to thinking about how much time and effort we put into taking care of our health. We really do! We are fifty-somethings and it is important. I also got thinking about a piece I wrote a few years back and it made me smile. The reason for the smile is that, even though we work our arses off in the gym, we are still "not perfect." Nor are the others in the gym, I believe. But we keep on plodding along.

So, after my husband left the house, I went through my computer files and found this piece about "Perfect People." And although it was written at the Christmas season, the message is appropriate for today. It made me smile again and thought maybe you might too.

So, here is my take on perfect people and I hope you enjoy.


Perfect People

Ready, set, go……..everyone starts at the same place, or so I thought.

We all come into this world naked and screaming. Someone takes hold of us, wraps us in a pink or blue blanket and passes us off, into the arms of someone we kind of, sort of, know. Along the way, we grow.
Growth and development is a very personal thing. Inside each of us are genes that unfold a myriad of mysteries. Some women get awesome thick, shiny hair while others get kinky, curly, unruly hair you want to pull out from the roots. The brain; some get one that produces fine thoughts and ideas while others…Well, does “clueless” mean anything to you? And then there are the ever important thighs; long lean shapely legs versus the short, squat and bubbly ones. Some non-choices are so unfair.
As for me, growth and development is reminiscent of the saying, “one step forward and two steps back.” Seems like I have spent the better part of my forty-five years figuring out which way is forward and how to get there. Along the way, I've managed to make a few beneficial moves but just when I think I've got the momentum going, something like Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party invitation shows up and well, all my progress takes another U-turn.
Amy is a woman I met a few years back. We met through a classified ad in the newspaper. (Sounds kinky, huh?) Actually, she recently moved to the area and was looking for a day care situation. She wanted to watch one child in her home and I had one child that needed watching. The arrangement worked great for my son and me in every aspect except one: Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
The invitation came a few months after my son was in her care. It was delivered to my mailbox. I decided to go to Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party because I didn't want to offend her by not going, and I figured she probably didn't have many acquaintances yet, being new to the area and all, so I graced her with my presence. Boy, was that a huge step backwards for me. Now, every November, around Thanksgiving time, I make the long walk to my mailbox with fear and trepidation in my bones, knowing that one afternoon I will go to the black box and find the dreaded invitation written in lovely curlicue handwriting on a holiday envelope. (Sounds like a master-piece.) I'll reach in the box, grab the pile of mail and hear the mocking voice from beyond the adhesive flap whispering, “Here you are loser-women, come and get your yearly whoopin.” Can you guess how my “first time” went at Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party?
At Amy's First Annual Women's Christmas party was when the realization hit me-the starting whistle blew a long time ago and everyone else in the room heard it and took off, running full steam ahead. They ran straight and strong towards goals I only dreamt about. (Fashion, finances and family) As I looked around, they appeared to have gotten them, while all I got was lost somewhere along the way. (Fat, frugal and fragmented family) Since that first year and the stark realization of my screwed up life, I have come to measure my personal growth and development along the plumb line of Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party.
While attending the first year's gala, I developed two important coping strategies. The first one called “the smile-the nod-the sip” developed instantaneously upon my initial introduction to the women. Moving to the center of the room, Amy introduced me to the ladies and they all smiled and said hello. I began to make small talk. I asked names and how they knew Amy and stuff like that. They politely answered my questions but never asked me anything back. So I stood there like some social misfit staring at the perfect ones staring at me. The silence. The stares. The knowing. It was immediate. I was not going to fit in no matter what I said or how I looked. Mid-life crisis, part-time career woman, frumpy fashion clad, children's book author wanna be was not making the grade with these perfect professionals. I realized that the builder's wife (skinny as a rail and impeccably dressed in Anne Taylor), the psychologist (trendy and well put together from her Ralph Lauren glasses to Donna Karan silk socks), Amy's interior decorator (whose exterior looked as gorgeous as Amy's interior did) and I had nothing in common other than Amy. So I decided I'd not embarrass myself among the perfect ones and kept to the “seen but not heard” mantra my mother taught me. Getting myself a glass of Pinot Grigio, I sauntered over to Amy's shelf of family pictures and stared nervously at them, feigning interest. Occasionally one of the perfect ones would come over and interject, “Isn't that a lovely picture of such and such and so forth.” I would smile and nod and sip and they would move on.
My second coping strategy was developed immediately after I went home from that first “Amy's Annual Women's Christmas Party.” Having endured the most uncomfortable two hours of my life (Yes, even labor was a picnic compared to this.) I looked my husband straight in the eye and said, “If I get invited to next year’s social event, you are going to call me after one hour and tell me I'm urgently needed at home,” a pre-emptive way out of my party hell.
Everything about Amy is perfect. She has a gorgeous million dollar house, four brilliant blond-haired, blue-eyed angelic children and a GQ husband that keeps her in the best. Amy plans her Christmas party perfectly too, beginning with perfectly designed party invitations. She has the perfect pastries and perfect party decorations. She invites just the right number of women to join her; not too many so it wouldn't feel intimate, not too few so as not to appear clique-y. Just the right number so as to not get lost in the crowd, something I desperately desired. The only person I know and really like at the party is Amy and she's busy being a hostess, so I get to linger in extreme discomfort much as I imagine hell to be like.
With Waterford crystal in hand, over at the family pictures, I sent psychic messages to my husband, my mother, the President, ANYONE to call my cell phone and rescue me. The perfect ones were chatting in various places around the Pottery Barn furnished living room. I listened to the woes of their lives as I casually tasted shrimp puffs and stuffed mushrooms. I stayed away from the cheese fondue thing, knowing that I did not possess the graceful movements necessary to reach, dip and not splatter all over my JC Penney sweater. After an hour of perfect unpleasantness and hors d'oeuvres, the invited guests were called to the living room for the “Opening of the Presents.”
“Opening of the Presents” at Amy's was something I never experienced before. Each person invited to the party was asked to bring one gift to exchange. A monetary limit was sent, which I quickly realized was ignored by the perfect women. As each woman arrived to the party they picked a number out of a Vera Wang silver-plated bowl which established the order of the “unwrapping.” All the festively wrapped gifts were displayed on a square coffee table in the middle of the room for the invitees to admire. The one perfectly positive thing about my attendance at the party was my perfectly wrapped present. I take great pride at my present wrapping abilities, having learned the technique of crisp, clean edges and fancy curlicue bows from my dad. I was perfectly proud to have my gift sitting on that festive coffee table.
At the chosen time, we all gathered around the festive table while “number one” chose her gift. The ooh's and aah's rose to the occasion and the gift was unveiled. At this point “number two” stood up and had to make a decision. Do I open a brand new gift or do I “steal” number one's gift? The rule, I learned, was that a gift could be stolen on three separate occasions; with the "last steal" being the final resting place of the coveted gift. Everyone got a turn to open or steal, and when the packages were gone you were the owner of whatever you had in your hands. Waiting for my appointed time to choose whether to pick or steal, was perfectly nerve-wracking. I sat squeezing my already tightly clasped hands. Although I would have loved the burgundy Lenox platter that was safely in stealer number three's hands, I decided I would not steal from anyone as I was taught well from my Catholic upbringing that stealing was never an option, and I figured the dogma extended to Amy's Annual Women's Christmas party as well. I, trying to look perfect, stood, gently picked up the present nearest to my seat and smiled and nodded. (I couldn't sip and open at the same time.) I imitated the elegant gift opening technique I observed from the perfect ones and when finished I sipped from my Waterford signaling the end of my turn. The opening ritual moved onto the next number.
I don't actually remember what I went home with that year but I do remember that the perfect person who opened my generic Barnes and Nobel leather journal and pen (ever the writer) never had it stolen from her.
After the unwrapping, my excitement rose as I anticipated the end of party hell, the time for my departure was within sight. I sipped the last of my Pinot Grigio, smiled and nodded to the perfect ones one more time and then worked my way to the door. Unbeknownst to me, there was more socializing to be done around the “treats” table. There was no way I was going to survive another five minutes at the perfect party eating more perfect treats. As I meandered towards the front door, I prayed my cell would ring bringing with it, glad tidings of great need at home, which would further expedite my not-so graceful exit. It didn't. So as efficiently as I could, without looking like a total cad, I put my Sears brand sock clad foot in my fifteen year old duck boot, said a gracious thank you for the invite to Amy, grabbed my Land's End parka and exited out the solid oak and lead glass front door.
I hit the cold December air and inhaled deeply, the stress of the afternoon leaving my body upon my exhale. I was almost back to the comfort of my four-year-old Volkswagen Jetta when the front door opened again. I heard my named called and I, smiling, turned around to see Amy standing there with my perfect grab bag gift in her hands. I hurried back towards her, smiling and nodding. (Not sipping this time but feeling the effects of the Pinot Grigio I had been sipping all afternoon.) I claimed my perfect grab bag gift, commented on my forgetfulness and bowed out once again.
Running to my car, determined to make a clean get away this time, I opened the door, sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. As I put the car in gear, I thought about how far I was from the finish line of those perfect people. I wondered if I'd ever figure out how to get there. I wondered if I even cared to get there.
The electronic sounding William Tell ring of my cell phone jarred me to the present. It was the familiar voice of a less than perfect-person, average-middle-aged man beckoning me to come home to a less than perfect, average-middle-class home because I was sorely missed. Accompanied by an imaginary angelic chorus humming in my head, the revelation fell upon me… being less than perfect was just perfect for me.

Have hope,
Donna :o)