Flawed

We all are. But how often do we look at our flaws with some specificity, the way we'd assess a finished sweater -- one sleeve too long, a cable imperfectly turned, baggy at the waist? When I have low blood sugars, the world looks dark, and I'm snippy. I have musical tourettes, which annoys many, and I don't care. I automatically assume that those who were born with silver spoons in their mouths aren't people I'd want as friends. I overestimate the selflessness of my generosity. I fail to fill the gas tank until I'm on fumes. Boredom irks the hell out of me. I'm restless. I don't suffer fools graciously. I eat ice cream right from the carton. I often forget to put out the trash on collection day. Although I am efficient, I procrastinate and am easily distracted. I bristle against those who assume any incompetence on my part, even if it's there. I'm an education snob. I don't vacuum frequently enough. I don't do home upkeep regularly, resulting in properties that look worse when I sell them than they did when I purchased them. I throw other people's things away. I drive so aggressively it can be dangerous. I text too much. I get obsessive about new pleasures. I don't always follow through, especially with resolutions to work out at the gym. I leave my dry-cleaning at the shop way too long. I can be very snide, and enjoy it. It takes me too long to confront my loved ones with issues we need to resolve. I lose myself in love. Sure, there are more. But for now, I feel purged, like a Russian Orthodox congregant confessing at the altar for all to hear. I don't believe in sin. But I do believe in flaws. The most beautiful handknit garments, filled with love, are most often slightly flawed somewhere or other, like Persian carpets, into which imperfections are woven. The value on these items is higher than those machine made. If only we were more certain of the beauty of imperfection when we were young.