The other day, Pooba posted a video entry about people who portray perfect lives on their blogs. Prefect house, perfect husband, perfect kids, perfect friends,the quintessential perfect life. While I know those people must exist, I couldn’t help but laugh at my inability to relate to it. It was like she was speaking a foreign language and I was having difficulty comprehending the mere concept. I’m sorry, could you please speak slower and enunciate; I am unfamiliar with this pseudo-perfectionism of which you speak.
Let’s be real here. A small percentage of my readers are people that I know in real life. There isn’t enough money in my bank account to bribe them to conspire with any attempt to convert my real life into some idealistic one. As for the remainder of you … if you believe that I try to depict any degree of perfectionism, I will be bold enough to suggest that you may need to take a remedial reading course of some sort. This phenomenon of ego blogging has been taking up valuable brain real estate over the past few days as I’ve pondered the absurdity of it. Accordingly, it was also on my mind as I prepared to share what happened to me yesterday.
On my way to work, I hurriedly grabbed my laptop and added it to the plethora of things teetering in my arms. My laptop had been residing on my kitchen counter this week, along with many other various non-kitchen related items. On a positive note, at least it was easily accessible and on my way to the door, right? Can you handle the perfectness here? I bet all Stepford women keep their laptops, toddler shoes, and week-old Easter candy on the kitchen counter, right? While I was scooping up my laptop, I reached out to grab the power cord as well. While I love my new laptop, the duration of the battery life is apparently in direct competition with the diminutive attention span of my three year old.
Upon arriving to my morning meeting, I settled in and opened my laptop. I politely requested outlet access from a colleague seated next to me. I then proceeded to to extract the CORD TO MY ELECTRIC GRIDDLE. If it weren’t for the Big Ben sized heat control dial, I may have been able to conceal the evidence. Move along people, nothing to see here. I contemplated mentioning that my plan was to whip out my griddle and prepare some banana pancakes for the meeting. Considering my sarcastic appointment as goddess of the kitchen, I believe that may have increased the comedic value of the whole situation.
I thought it was appropriate that to point out that other than the obvious, I am the absolute poster child of perfection.