As noted yesterday, I have been known to listen to a conversation among a bunch of strangers and butt right in. You don’t have to thank me; it’s important that I give of myself and enrich the lives of others. Just one small service I provide.
Several months ago I was at the airport having a bite to eat, and there was a lively group one table over; a man and two women. As I listened in, I learned that all three of them had been divorced, and some of them more than once. They were all whining about finding the “perfect” person out there. They all had lists of criteria, but somehow they were losing on love.
I tried as hard as I could to keep my trap shut, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I scooted over a little closer and said “throw away your list.” They all looked pretty annoyed but I expected nothing less. I told them again to throw away their lists and stop looking for the “perfect” mate. Sure, the legends of the Abominable Snowman, the Loch Ness Monster and The Perfect Mate persist, but it’s just fantasy. They seemed doubtful when I told them even if there was such a thing as a Perfect Mate, they would want to kill themselves after a few months of dating Mr. or Ms. Perfect.
Can you imagine? The constant drone and persistent boredom of perfect-ness; always agreeing and complimenting, sacrificing themselves for each other. Then before you know it the wife sells her hair to buy her husband a watch chain and the husband sells his watch to buy her beautiful combs to hold back her flowing mane. Everyone is screwed then, right? She doesn’t look so hot anymore and he has no idea when it’s time to come home for their perfect little dinner.
Creating a match is not some kind of cosmic salad bar; I’ll take this, none of that, do you have any this, that could be fresher. Real life is a composed salad. There’s some stuff you don’t like so you work around it. You don’t make a big deal when you hit a sour note in the dressing, you savor your favorite parts, and
OMG. Did you see where I was headed there? A Really Bad Metaphor, or as they’re known in the biz, an RBM. They sneak right up on me. I apologize. Anyway, what I told these folks is that they should stop looking for a pieced together Frankenmate and start looking for someone whole, warts and all.
Before I knew it, someone in the restaurant started one of those slow claps you see in the movies, building and building to a standing ovation with hundreds of people worshiping me for my wisdom. I graciously blew kisses at the crowd and then was carried out on a wave of shoulders.
Of course my memory could be foggy. I might have just paid my check and headed to the gate.