Almost Perfect

It's been quite a busy few days this past week, with all of the Offspring home and requiring trips to the dentist and extra food shopping/meal preparation, together with Christmas festivities and several obligatory family gatherings, plus a rather unpleasant cold virus that waltzed through the household. Herself is relieved that the holiday season is coming to a close, and that she can attempt to get into a more regular schedule. She needs routine.

She is still working to find a new kind of normalcy in which Cherished Friend is not as frequent a fixture, and with the busy running-around of the holidays, it has been difficult to find any kind of rhythm. She did enjoy a reflection of her previous routine while Cherished Friend was in town for a couple of days; they ran errands together, and he joined the family for dinner and games. It was a slightly bittersweet echo of days past -- such a thorough lesson in learning to enjoy the moment. She's learning to do so.  Always a work in progress, she is.

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Yesterday, Herself and Beloved Husband hosted Long-term Acquaintance and Acquaintance's Spouse for tea.  Herself always feels on tenterhooks when Acquaintance visits; although the social calls can be pleasant, it invariably happens that there is some pointed statement, some backhanded compliment, some veiled criticism that surfaces.  (We've provided a several examples previously.)  Yesterday was no exception.

Beloved Husband was demonstrating to Acquaintance's Spouse a magnifying sheet that Herself had given Beloved Husband for Christmas.  He mentioned that it would be particularly useful for a particular task Herself has, and complimented Herself on her skills in that particular task.  Acquaintance stated, nearly scoffing at Beloved Husband's compliment: "Well, of course, I told you years ago that [Herself] can do all kinds of things well."

Herself thought:  that almost sounds like a compliment from Acquaintance, even though it was couched in a way that made it sound as though Acquaintance was ever so slightly berating Beloved Husband for not accepting Acquaintance's superior knowledge regarding Herself's abilities.

Then Acquaintance went on:  "She's almost perfect.  (Pause.) ALMOST."

Ah, the pregnant pause, and the careful emphasis on almost. So innuendo-laden.

This is not the first time Acquaintance has used this language, complete with insinuation. Herself wearies of this passive-aggressive game.

So Herself replied:  "When you say it that way, it sounds like there's some big imperfection underlying that."

Acquaintance responded in turn:  "I'll never tell - except for the right price."

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It's a double-edged sword, the "almost perfect" statement:  first, it holds Herself to unattainable high standards of achievement; and simultaneously, it spotlights some kind of mysterious glaring defect that is clearly obvious to Acquaintance (and presumably thus to others), yet about which Herself is unfortunately unaware. Though apparently, that knowledge can be bought. Herself idly wonders what the price would be. And also what Acquaintance believes is Herself's terrible flaw.

There's too much cost to Herself in playing that game.

Time to build more walls.

Herself is quite cognizant of her imperfections. She works daily to better herself.  Sometimes, she succeeds.  Other times, she has to try again tomorrow. As we said: a work in progress. One thing Herself knows for certain, though: she will love those whom she loves in their entirety, with all their facets both good and bad, perfect and imperfect.

You are loved, just as you are. Without question. And without price.

To love another another human in all of her splendor and imperfect perfection, it is a magnificent task... tremendous and foolish and human. ― Louise Erdrich, The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse

Picture copyright 2014, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.