Maturity

I sat on a set of stairs today.  I haven’t in awhile.  I was wearing a tie, button-down shirt, kaki pants, and dress shoes (and socks).  I felt mature, grown up.  I felt like I was important, not for where I was going or what I was doing, but for where I was in my life.  I felt proud, but not too proud.  I felt like I had my head on straight, like I was doing everything right and perfect at that exact moment in time.  I wished time could stop so that I could see myself, mature, all grown up.  I had my hands folded, perfectly, just as all the mature adults did it.  I sat as if on a mighty king’s throne (quite politely, of course) while watching my loyal subjects dance about for me in my court.  I took a look at my perfect posture, but then I noticed that my feet were crossed.  As if I had duck feet.  As if I was a slopy person.  I was not who I thought I was.  I was a mess.  I corrected my mistake quite quickly, I didn’t want loyal subjects to see that their leader had his feet crossed like an idiot.  Now my posture was perfect.  And yet, now another flaw.  My cuff was unbottoned.  I really was a mess.  I’m not perfect.  I know this.  But what I have to realize is that no one is, so why should I be worried about fixing my imperfections.  They make me who I am.  My imperfections make me who I am.