I generally have this feeling that, even though there are many flaws in my life and my way of living, one day, I will resolve and eliminate all of those imperfect ways of doing things.

Somewhere in my future, there is a version of me with an optimal BMI who eats lots of kale and draws every single day and only drinks light beer and speaks fluent Spanish and allows other people to finish their thoughts and never bites his cuticles, and is totally in the present and can touch type.

I’m sure I can fix everything wrong with me one day and have no more problems ever.

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But, of course, this is folly. Or at least not human.

Even if we could magically get our house completely in order, Mario Kondo-ed from basement to attic, life will still put its muddy boots on the sofa. I can sleep peacefully knowing I have reached Mailbox Zero and wake up to a deluge of new spam. I can check off everything on my to-do list and still have a gnawing sense that I missed something.

The life I lead now is just a shabby precursor to the Real Me that I will soon become as soon as I lose a couple of pounds and file my tax return.

Once I build all the proper habits, the cogs of my life will mesh seamlessly, and I will never need to worry again. I will be the perfect, true version of what I was meant to be, my potential fully realized.

But what if I never do? What if I remain a little grimy, ink-spattered and ragged at the seams?

What if I am destined to always be in development, never optimized, and always a few lessons away from the final exam?

Would that be so bad? What if I embrace my imperfection and revel in my shortcomings?

What if I stop striving and start just being flawed old me instead?

Your pal,

Danny

P.S. From the Department of Whatever: One of my many lovable qualities is my butter-fingered cloddishness. Last night, just as I was falling asleep, I thought, "y'know, it's been a long time since I broke a glass." This morning, ten minutes after I got up, I dropped Jenny's favorite mug and smashed it to pieces. One of those shards bore the manufacturer and item # on it and, by midmorning, my resourceful wife texted me to say she had found the mug on sale and bought us four new ones. She sent me a screen grab of the receipt with the words, "Good news!" I texted back, "You mean, 'Breaking news!'" She ignored my joke, as, undoubtedly, will you.