A couple of years ago I chipped one of my already-crooked bottom-front teeth. Luckily, my horse-size chompers hide the snaggle-tooth for photo ops, but it’s quite noticeable when I talk, which, unfortunately, I have to do on occasion. I could have it filed down, but even pretend-manicures make me flinch. There’s no way in hello-operator I’m letting someone emery-board this tooth.
My dentist, however, said not to worry, dubbing me “charmingly imperfect.” I’ve decided to adopt this phrase as a mantra and apply it to all of my less-than-ideal attributes. The thigh cellulite that even half-ironman training wouldn’t destroy? Charmingly imperfect. Those laugh lines and age spots that no amount of Retin-A will vanquish? Charmingly imperfect! And how about my practically non-existent belly button? Definitely imperfect but seriously charming!
The point is, even though Photo Shop could charge me extra, these are the features that make me, me. And now that I’m in my 40s, I’m finding it much easier to simply embrace them. In fact, I think it’s kind of cool to walk around with charmingly imperfect characteristics, like unusually long second toes and an Osgood-Schlatter calcium “tumor” on my kneecap. Jealous?
As a side note, I thought I had exhausted my list of charmingly imperfect attributes, but then the spouse read this and suggested a few more – bubble-butt, slight overbite, flat chest, invisible eyelashes … OK, OK, I get it. Thank you, Doo. You’re awesome.
So, yes, pre-varicose veins are creating a perverted but oddly accurate map of the Mississippi River Delta on my milky-white calves, but, by god, I am charmingly imperfect — jacked-up teeth and all.
Peace out.
