When I was a child, I played a game called “Perfection”. It was a game where you had to put all the little pieces into the corresponding slots before your time ran out. If you can manage to do that, then you reached perfection. As I come into my forties and find that life has to be a bit slower than when I was ten years younger, “Perfection” is no longer my goal. I am not trying to be perfect because “Perfect” is no longer attainable for me. My hair is so thin that it now comes in cellophane bags. Half my teeth are in a jar. I love my girdle and most of my beauty is contained in jars and bottles. The strength I had to go the extra mile has been shortened to the extra half a mile. Despite the fact that perfection can no longer be a goal, I still believe that life is ultimately enjoyable. I still lick the plate of life and drain the cup. Paradise is still attainable even if paradise is not perfection. The whole of my existence now, is to live the life I have until my body refuses to live anymore. Whatever portion of my health and sanity that is left will be filled with the beauty of God and I will cherish each moment, even if my hair comes in a bag and my beauty comes in a jar.
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