perfect as a donut cake

Perfect is a 100% subjective statement. Unless you're talking about a perfect circle. Or a perfect crime. Or a perfect shitstorm.

Despite that. Here's my recent take on perfect:

Perfect is a birthday where you feel your new age was earned, and you look forward to honorably wearing it for a full year. Instead of reaching out to begrudgingly grab it with your eyes closed, one hand clamped over your mouth for fear of barfing up a withered old lady lung, and then grasping it (the year, not the lung) like a punishment, like a manacle clamped on you by the cackling goddess witches of the underworld.

Perfect is being 35 years old and fucking proud of it.

Perfect is celebrating with a collection of friends at a vintage store/bar, and sipping lavender champagne cocktails while seeking profound connection on the red velvet settee from the tarot-card reader/chick who works at Madrona Hill coffee shop.

Perfect is a friend bringing you balloons. And another a bottle of wine. And another an avocado-colered retro salt and pepper shaker. Perfect is NOT the same balloons getting entangled with the ceiling fan at home and nearly causing a burnt out motor in a home that you're just renting. But perfect IS that two weeks later there is still one balloon left, and its long curled ribbon dances still across the living room floor, in between bouts of being smacked around at the hands of two perfectly imperfect children.

Perfect is my little pony magic cupcake hair, even when the purple starts to wash down the drain.

Perfect is a pirate ship piñata, filled with bouncy balls, papa smurf, candy, tattoos, and the squishy marketing collateral from a mortgage firm. Perfect is the texas-sized maple bar birthday cake with 35 candles in it. Perfect is blowing out the candles with my kids. Perfect is the boyfriend who made those things happen.
photo by tim

And perfect is the light up hula hoop that arrived days later, ready and willing to brighten up the looming autumn nights and happily bruise my abdomen. A colorfully illuminated perfect circle.

Perfect is imperfection, honored. And it's finding a place for perfect to live, for just a year at a time, then to be handed off to the next person, as they reach out with their eyes closed and nervously try not to barf up a lung.
i'm all lit up


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