Perfect...Just Perfect!

Every workplace has one. She's a clone of sorts, I do believe. She's that perfect person who strolls through the day with nary a hair out of place and who serves as a living example of the standards to which we should all aspire.

The clothes? Classically cut. The skin? Unblemished. The voice? Musical even on the worst of days. Her posture? I can't even discuss it without shamelessly weeping. And, as much as you may want to hate The Perfect Ones, they typically turn out to be rather nice and you can't help but like them. Even if it hurts just a little bit.

We have one of those in the school where I teach. She teaches fifth grade and there is not a little boy who hasn't fallen desperately in love with her nor a girl who doesn't want to grow up to be just like her. At least once a week, my Cheerful Teaching Assistant and I sigh longingly and bemoan our less than perfect states. We discuss her latest sweater vest and how it so fetchingly sets off her blouse. We admire her gentle way with the children. And her hair? It looks the same every single day. It is impervious to weather, humidity and the natural ravages of time.

It is hard to tell her age as she is one of those "timeless" sorts of beings. But, I think I'm probably older than she is. In spite of this, I join the little girls in her class in hoping that I might be like her when I finally get around to growing up.

I'll just bet she wasn't aiming a blow dryer at her shirt this morning in a desperate attempt at wearing something wrinkle-free and only barely damp to work. It is highly unlikely that she was eating her breakfast in the car and picking her teeth with a credit card to dislodge a residual piece of bagel at 70 miles per hour. And there is no way that she spent twenty minutes in the teacher's restroom staring at the mirror and berating her hair in the hopes that the sheer shame of the tongue-lashing might force it to buck up and exhibit some poofiness. (This did not work. It was a flat-hair day and there was no amount of product nor punishment that would convince it to be otherwise)

When the Perfect One came upon me in the photocopy room this morning, I was a bit aware of my damp and non-poofy state. This probably accounts for my trying a little too hard. As it was, she was witness to my discussion with a colleague around my fear of the laminating machine. When the colleague fled to go teach some children or juggle knives given that either might be preferable to hearing another one of my verbal essays regarding the dangers of things that get very, very hot, I had little choice but to engage the Perfect One. She was sort of staring at me. What else was I supposed to do?

Sheepish Annie: Seriously! These things get really, really hot! I'm always afraid that when I leave the copy room, it will just heat up to the point of no return and explode, taking us all out in a fiery blaze of doom...

The Perfect One: My goodness! I guess I never thought about the laminating machine quite that way.

SA: (realizing that she may have crossed that oh-so-delicate line between "colleague" and "tonight's dinner conversation") Well...I sort of do have a rich and colorful inner life.

TPO: I should say so! (Smiles sweetly)

SA: (Encouraged! Clearly a favorable impression is being made! Maybe The Perfect One will become her new best friend!!) Yeah! You should hear my theory on the imminent zombie invasion! I've got a whole scenario worked out and a plan for survival under the new world order that I'd be glad to share if you ever want to sit down and....

TPO: Well now. This sounds like more of a Friday Conversation, I should think. As it's only Thursday, let's put a pin in this one, shall we? (resumes photocopying)


I left the copy room in shame. I'd gone too far. I probably should have just said I liked her shoes or something. But, being perfect, she always sort of blushes like she's embarrassed when complimented and I was stuck for something to say and the whole thing went wrong and now I have to use the downstairs copy room. Which is really far away. But worth the trip if it means not having to see the Perfect one and relive my shame.

This is the sort of thing that makes me glad the weekend is almost upon us. Maybe there will be an actual zombie attack over the weekend and I won't look so darned stupid come next week. Or maybe I'll be hit by a meteor. I'm flexible. Whatever...

I will, however, make some time to get back behind the wheel and see what I can do with the sock yarn. I may not be perfect. And I may horrify those who are. But I can spin sock yarn.

It's not perfect either. But I'll just bet that she can't do it!

SA