Waiting for the New Year

As the year draws to a close, I have a confession to make. 

            My biggest problem is that I am perfect.  Seriously, deep down, I seldom see my actions as anything other than exactly what is called for.   Everything about me is perfect, I read the right books, love the best music, and have a long and entertaining history of life choices.  Most people go into analysis to cure their faults.  If I went I would be at a loss to define any faults.  What would I say; help me, I’m perfect?

            It will come as no surprise to hear that my opinion is not shared by those who know me.  My husband used to say that I suffered from delusions of grandeur and he was only half kidding.  My daughter would tell you I obsess about clutter and hang my clothes by color.  Those people I used to work with would tell you I was driven, nose to the grindstone and always ahead of the game, sadly, not always the right game.  Friends would say I am great at trivia but not so great at remembering birthdays.  I will admit this last observation is true.  I have one of those trick memories that stores every work I have ever read, every song I have ever heard.  How many people do you know that can tell you who played the Humpty Dumpty in the 1933 version of Alice in Wonderland?  Give up?  W.C. Fields.  Why do I know this?  I never saw the movie, the information is just there, in my perfect memory.

            It’s hard to be perfect, always making allowances for those less gifted, trying to be open minded and engaging when deep down I sometimes feel like I am living in an alternate universe where I am the only one who knows what is going on.  I once spent an entire summer trying to develop faults, trying to modify my character to something less assuming, less inverted with no luck.  I just ended up with a bad case of insomnia and not a clue about anything else.

            The more I think about this, the more I think we all see ourselves as perfect.  We might say, for discussions sake, I ate too much, read the wrong books, nag when I should keep my mouth shut but deep down, inside where the ‘I' of us is most secure, do we really believe we have imperfections or do we think it is the way we are perceived that is in error?  Maybe we are all perfect; we are just not admitting it.