I'm a perfectionist.  I like my life to be ordered, controlled, and played out exactly how I imagine it to be. Unfortunately, I'm not perfect and nothing in my life is perfect either. No matter how hard I work at something it never seems to fulfill my imagined version of it. Something I often see as a problem.

That being said, I also have a soft spot for the perfectly imperfect. Something that those closest to me know all too well. I've always preferred the wonky star to the symmetrical one. The "difficult" kids to the angelic ones. And, we all know I chose the wildest dog to take home instead of the gentle puppy. These are choices I make, seeing in these things their inherent beauty, despite their outward flaws.

One of my favorite examples of the perfectly imperfect (outside of Nellie of course) is a one-legged drawing mannequin my friend Idara gave we when I graduated college. I immediately loved him! He's fragile, slightly lopsided, and can only be put into a few positions or else he'll topple over completely. He reminds me of me.

He is proudly displayed prominently in my home and serves as a reminder that nothing in life is perfect, but that's what makes it special, and unique. I should stop worrying about being perfect and focus on just being imperfectly perfect me.

Some things in life just get better with age. - b. 

better with age series: intro | post I 

Growing up my great grandad was this untouchable figure-head, who appeared almost god like in my young eyes. He was a depression-era farmer who raised 8 children in a two bedroom house with little more than a firm hand and mischievous smile. He was Grant Wood's American Gothic come to life.

To his grandchildren and great-grandchildren he was a scruffy-faced, candy-loving gruff who teased, and tickled, and loved unconditionally. Despite the threadbareness of his pockets his generosity only seemed to grow as he aged, and it was always bestowed unexpectedly. On one such occasion he gave my mom a little money to spend on my siblings and I at Christmas.

My mom carefully picked out a small gift for each of us, wrapped it, and placed it under the tree with a tag that said "From: great grandad." I opened my soft package to reveal the prettiest red slipper socks with white snowflakes on the feet. My 8 year-old heart squealed with delight as I slipped them on and pranced around the living room. It was the perfect gift, and an instant treasure. One I still hold on to 20 years later.

The slippers are stretched a little thin, and the snowflakes have begun to fade, but every time I look at them I think of an idol of mine and just how much he meant to my family and to me. He may not have picked the gift out, but he is still the gift's source and for that reason they'll always be grandad's slipper socks. A gift that only get's better with age. -b.

(You can see a little bekuh tucked in next to the man himself, in the old photograph above.)