The Price Of Perfection: An Observation From A Seat In A Supermarket Cafe.

 

What is the price of perfection? That put together look. Sleek hair, pristine shoes. Matching colours, matching brands. Not a thing out of place. The stuff itself if costly, for sure, but what is the price on the soul and is it all borne by a single one? How much time does it take to be so carefully assembled? How much sleep? Do you worry that today might be the day you fail, that aspeck of errant dirt may foil your sheer veneer?

Who helps you carry your load, supporting each part of your perfection? Or do those perfect nails preserve in spite of of your own gut-wrenching labour to bring this appearance, that car, that house to such a level of zen?

I dust croissant crumbs from my slack maternity jeans, only half conscious of the milky foam at the corner of my mouth, and I watch. I’m entranced by your glistening, gliding through the aisles. I wonder why you’re here at all, perfectly balanced at the trolley bar. What could you need with this place? Is the point of perfection just to be seen?

My shoulders sometimes sink under the weight of it all. My blemishes and imperfections wear upon me as a patina. Even with the most Titanic effort I still crash and sink in attempting to achieve even a fragment of your flawless.

Do you struggle and fight the onslaught too? Do you ever break a sweat, throw a spill, lose control of your hair?

You make it look so easy. So achievable and within reach. What is the cost?