Perfect disaster zone

I'm not perfect. I'm selfish, I'm impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control at times and hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. - Miss Munroe
 
She had a point. It's true. And I too am all of those things and perhaps, I fear, more. I'm an artfully, endlessly complicated, absolute disaster. And to be honest, I kind of like it that way. It's tiring pretending to be a version of perfection. Halloween is over and it's refreshing to be able to walk around without wearing a mask or entertaining a masquerade.
 
I'm not perfect. In fact, I'm so far from perfect I'd be whatever the antipodal is. But, as my luck goes, I meet perfect people all the time. The kind with sparkly teeth and glossy hair, matching bath towels, cute babies, good knowledge of geography and interesting cultural points of view. They make me want to throw up. I just couldn’t stand the pressure of being one. Imagine the rules? I know its a club I’ll never be allowed to join.

I'm the direct opposite. The sort standing pulling gum off my shoe. A member of the ‘breathlessly late, half disheveled mess’ style club. The one with few other members other than the possible extreme exception of Courtney Love. But I think it suits me more, and I think I'll be an decorated member till I die.
 
I try to make myself feel better by chanting the mantra ‘perfection is over-rated’. Then again, I may just be jealous? Either way, perfection is a quest I gave up on a while ago, and continue to give up on each day when I roll out of bed, 10 minutes late for work and 2 days early for the weekend.
 
The moral of the story hence being if you see a girl, hair everywhere, coat and scarf disrobing, bag spilling, studying an upside-down map while pulling her stiletto heel out of the pavement, please, smile and run. It's probably me, and I probably don't need to see you. You and your crisply ironed, matching shoe/bag/belt/glove combo whilst you talk effortlessly on your cell, type a quick email and push your state of the art baby buggy to an 'Eastern Mongolian language class for advance learners'. Trust me, don't bother saying hi. Your just making me look bad.  And while I grit my teeth and say “I like my mask of imperfection”, frankly when I see your mask I start to think mine isn't that great. And I get the overwhelming urge to grab it and tap dance it into the pavement. And that’s really not going to be pretty for anyone.