Perfect people

Hate them. I hate perfect people.

It's not really their fault. They know how to stay neat-looking all day. They always return phone calls. Their kids never have faces smeared with chocolate from the chocolate-chip-cookie bribe on the way home from the park.

And my imperfect life, complete with a T-shirt covered in little kid snot and computer keyboard missing the left shift key, stems from this one flaw: I'm a horrible speller.

Everything I write — everything — has errors. And while there exists people who catch spelling errors, those that don't care and those who cloak their own mistakes by picking out the flaws in others (my favorite), my camp falls from the"Why am I so stupid" variety. It's a sad little group, but we're a lot of fun to laugh at, so I guess that's something.

And what am I to do? I try really, really hard not to make mistakes, especially since I know I'm prone. I try and try, only to fail over and over again. Steve said everybody makes mistakes, but I just have a really hard time believing him. If that were true, wouldn't bridges be collapsing all over town and airplanes falling from the sky?

So I continue my imperfect, misspelled life as best I can and try to keep the snot shirt to a minimum. I continue to be weak willed, self loathing and a horrible decision maker. But in the grand scheme of the world, the one where Guinea worm disease still exists, I'm a very lucky woman. If I lay in bed at night, tortured by my spelling errors, that's my problem.

I'll take luck over spelling any day.