This morning, as I watched my Robin Thicke DVD at work (just can't leave those dirty white boys alone!), I got to thinking about what constitutes perfect. I noticed that Robin Thicke has perfect teeth because they are straight. But does straight mean perfect or just the absence of difference? Is perfect synonymous with same? Will I ever learn to spell "synonymous"? And what about Naomi? (that last one is for my closeted Electric Company brethren)
For most of my life, I've been chasing this "perfection" ideal. The hours spent in teeth bleaching sessions, with gym trainers, trying to get my plays onstage (and we won't even go there with the hair cuttings, relaxings, colorings, wrappings, et. al)- it's all spent chasing my idea of perfect life. However, if I stop to think about it, I haven't a clue as to what a perfect life would look like. Would I be a produced playwright who weighs 100 pounds? I'm already published several times over and have a banging body (the lecherous WalMart custodian I ran into yesterday thinks 114 suits me just fine), so what am I spinning my wheels for? Does it get any better?
I'm inclined to believe that it does not. There is always a price; even perfection isn't free. Then, the question becomes when is the quest for perfection too high? Is it ever? As for me, I will probably die in the pursuit of physical perfection. But, as I tell am apt to tell friends and family, "I may be dead, but at least you can bury me in a tube top".
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