Life the universe and everything in between

Through the inspiring words of a friend, Rachel…

“Today I bought a new skirt. It is bright blue, and in the dark seems to glow. When I arrived home, I put it on and tried it with a dark blue singlet I had bought at the age of 14, 10 years earlier. “Tehe”, I think, as I observe myself in the mirror, “it is so tight you can see the definition of my buttocks through that lycra”.
Walking down the street, I feel like a model, strutting down the catwalk, and that everyone’s eyes are drawn my way. However, out of nowhere, analysis sets in and I start thinking about the contrast between my faded blue singlet and my sensational new skirt. I feel more warmth towards my singlet, but excitement about the skirt… there is no way I could enjoy the skirt without my singlet. My singlet is what I know and what makes me feel secure. Although it is nowhere near as glowing as my skirt, just like a best friend, my singlet represents stability and intimacy.
My singlet tells the story is the story of sleepiness nights, running races and training, beaches and freezing mornings. It’s the story of an object I have not always been fond of, but which has always played a fundamental role in its own history and my memories. Although it is now full of holes, and looks more tie-dye than navy blue, and even though I can only use it for a day before the sweat, accumulated in the fabric over many years begins to make itself known, it is my favorite singlet because I know best how to wash it, dry it, and I can wear it with any other item of clothing, no matter how embarrassed I might feel in doing so. For me, it is perfect in its imperfection.
Of course my skirt also has a story, which goes much further back than the store where I bought it- to the factory, the countryside, and the truckies that transported it from wherever those origins might have been. Nonetheless, in contrast to my singlet, I cannot know its story, I don’t know it.

Eventually my skirt will grow old, and perhaps for this, I will grow to love it more. Although it will no longer have the same shine it has at the moment, it will have its own story, and will have come to form part of my story. It is only a question of giving it the opportunity to shine, no only in a superficial sense, but also in an emotional one.
If we visit a second-hand, “used” or “pre-loved” bookstore, unlike a new clothes store, in which one looks for the least wrinkled, most finely sewn, and shiny item, in such bookstores, the most destroyed, coverless, coffee-stained book is that which best indicates a quality tale, just as old-people indicate certain wisdom. Taking this into account, it is not surprising that artistic photographers take pictures of old-people and collapsing buildings, and not plastic youth and spaceships, as in advertisements. The former tell a story, the latter show.

Imperfection is the key to that which is interesting, exotic and strange. It’s the spare tyre which indicates the tasty meal from the night before, the loss of control, and at times, the suffering of a person before society’s judging eyes. Imperfection might be the scar on a man’s forehead that prevents his hair from growing, and the perfect number-1 cut. It might be the story of when his sister dropped him on the head as a baby, or the battle he had with his brother when Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were all the rage. It could be the tremour that suggests the hidden vice, buried insecurities, sadness, and the “I can’t go on” of an alcoholic, and the orthographical mistakes of a child whose parents couldn’t afford to pay the electricity.  These are the clues of imperfection and the way to its beautiful treasure.“