Having already brought the iced tea, she was now ready to take my order — the cheeseburger special with fries and slaw on the side. I said it right and she wrote it down right. “Perfect,” she said with a smile, then she was gone.
What went on between her and me was, indeed, perfect. Beyond that, however, was another story. The place was packed so we were lucky to get the high table with the potentially dangerous high stools. After all, an extra powerful sneeze, a reach too far for a lost napkin, or simply attempting to maintain balance which if ever lost, would require a quick grab at anything sturdy.
There was also a lot of noise. With every seat filled with happy humanity, even minimum conversation called for an effort ranging from loud to shout. Also, the presence of all those 98.6 degree bodies required the need for cool air, uncomfortable heaves of which were coming straight down from up above.
The food turned out well and so did the service. Instead of interrupting conversation to ask if “everything was alright,” she did a quick but thorough glance each time she passed, then automatically reacted to what she saw or sensed was needed.
As we left, I had to split the mentally arrived at report card — perfect for her, less for the environment.
That, however, pointed to this question: What does the word “perfect” really mean? Completely free of fault? If so, by whose or what standard? Or maybe there isn’t any standard.
If, for example, you are buying a diamond, the gemologist eases around that question when showing you a “flawless” diamond, a rating defined by the 4 C’s — caret, cut, color, and clarity. Even then, who established those qualities and how do you know that the flawless and hence the perfect really does live up to the claims made for it?
Complicating that issue even more is the growing availability of man-made diamonds that to the naked eye look as good as the real thing. Because nobody else except you will know the difference, would that be a case of desired but denied “perfect”?
We already know that buying a car is far more complicated. Yes, for a quick judgement, we look at the fit and finish, but beyond that, trying to define perfect becomes much more difficult. The same goes for such items as houses, furniture, clothes and even where we live. The innards of such things may be up to standard, but is that perfect? The anguishing search knows no end.
Nothing, however, is more complicated than trying to define the perfect human being. In fact, it borders on impossible. People range all the way from quiet, sensitive, and engaging to emotional time bombs ready to explode at the mere mention of something they learned or were taught to dislike or even hate.
At that point, best we turn back and take a closer look at the steady stream of practical stuff that requires us to determine perfect. The closest we can come is to assume everything is, to some extent, imperfect. That, in turn, means we must determine how much of imperfect we are willing to tolerate. Even then, it’s easy for that to become alarmingly close to a stalemate.
The clerk in the store, insurance agent, mechanic, plumber or electrician admits that “it,” whatever it is, isn’t perfect but is certainly good enough, that it will work just fine, that no one will ever notice, that it will have the durability to last a “lifetime.”
Their motive, however, often reveals they aren’t looking out for us, but rather themselves as they attempt to meet the quota, get home in time to watch the game, go eat because they are hungry, or just flake out and go to bed because they are dead tired.
Total it up and you could easily conclude that “perfect” is not only illusive but often useless. After all, you can ask only so much of anything before it breaks, of anyone before they just stare at you. You must also consider the obsolescence factor. That is, no matter how well it works, age eventually overrides perfect. Nothing can escape the “new and improved.”
Even more important, defining then finding “perfect” often results in considerable waste including time that neither you nor anyone else has to spare.
In the end, you are left with only one reasonable recourse: Steer the best you can through all of it while remembering that even if perfect, nothing lasts forever, not even you.
As for me, I’m going back to that restaurant with the hope she will still be waiting tables including mine. After all, she said it was “perfect.” She meant it. I heard her say it — and I believed it.
