The Perfect Person

 

The Perfect Person
J. M. Whitaker

For as long as I can remember, I have been searching
for the perfect girl. Since I was old enough to begin
longing for female companionship, I have been on the
hunt. I guess it started out as just a simple dream or
fantasy, not unlike most of us. The strange thing
about it was that it never stayed just a dream or a
fantasy. The more people I dated, the more times I was
let down, the more I hungered for that perfect person,
the one that would fill all of my needs and desires,
the one that would never let me down.

I dated girl after girl. Some of them were great while
others got me into some trouble. Some of them made me
laugh, but a lot of them made me cry. Through my
journey, I found a lot of joy and a lot of sorrow, a
lot of happiness and a lot of pain, but never the
perfect girl. I had dreamed about her. Dark hair,
darker eyes, a slim figure tinted golden brown from
the sun. She had an accent and could play the cello.
She would love to talk, but wouldn't expect me to talk
too much. She would always ask me how my day was and
would always have a smile on her face; absolute
perfection. I began to devise methods in how I would
meet the girls I would date.

I knew I wanted an intelligent girl, so I hung out in
libraries and museums. I meet this real crazy girl at
a library after school one day. She was smart and sexy
and, well? crazy. I would rather not go into a lot of
details about it. Let's just say she had some real
deep-seated anxieties about our relationship and,
consequentially, our break up.

I knew I wanted an artistic girl, so I went to music
stores and coffee shops, I even tried a couple of
classical concerts. I met this wonderfully cute girl
who dressed really dark and loved to write poetry. She
was great, we used to stay up all night long talking
about the silliest things, but she ended up dumping me
for some guy who did drugs and rode a motorcycle. I
got into a car accident with a girl driving a Pontiac
Sunfire. She had no driver's license or car insurance,
but she did have a really great smile and the
prettiest hair. Instead of calling the police, we
called in sick and went out to eat. We dated for a
while but eventually came across an irreconcilable
difference in opinions. She didn't always feel the
need to come "straight home" after work. Okay, to be
honest, toward the end of our relationship, she rarely
came home at all.

Then there was the girl from the International House
of Pancakes. She was an exact replica of my
personality. I mean if you had met us both over some
Internet chat room, you would swear we were the same
person using multiple screen-names. Sounds sweet, huh?
Have you ever considered marrying yourself? Have you
ever thought about growing old together, just you and
yourself? We both found that the whole idea of finding
that "perfect person" was to find someone different
from yourself to fulfill the empty spots within you.

I searched every where. I left no rock unturned, no
leaf moved aside, but to no avail. After much pain and
heartache, I began to believe that the perfect girl
just did not exist. Then one day, I found her.
Her name was Malia. She was from Hawaii, raised in
Italy. She wore silk pajama pants to bed. She had
written a novel. She loved the beach and hated cats,
just like me. She had silky, dark and curly hair that
swayed perfectly if the breeze was right. She had a
caramel colored body, etched out of a block of pure
perfection, and her face was that of an angel. From
the very first time I saw her, I could not seem to
take my eyes away from hers. She was like a siren,
calling my name, beckoning me closer to her, even when
she was asleep. The attraction was complete, with no
faults, no annoyances. Every time she spoke she
mesmerized me and every time she moved she amazed me.
She was... well, perfect. Oh, and did I mention
she played the cello?

We spent all the extra time we had together. We spent
so much time together that we decided to move in
together. We were paying rent on two places, but one
of them was doing nothing but collecting dust. We
would sit on the porch when it rained and hold each
other. We would lay on the beach and soak up a sweet
combination of sunrays and pina coladas. Life was
good. No, life was perfect and I knew it just couldn't
possibly get any better than it was right then and
there.

Two years later, Malia left me for a
career-opportunity at a really
prominent university in Europe. There were no harsh
words, no angry feelings, not even any sad good-byes.
She was so perfect that if she wanted to leave, I
wanted it for her. That is, until she was gone.

I cried for days, and began to drink for weeks after
that. I felt as if my life was over, that the only
reason that I had existed was gone, and every breath I
took from that moment on was a futile attempt to hold
on to something I later found I never had: The Perfect
Love.

Malia was perfect. She was perfect in each and every
single way, but I was not. Our love for each other was
a deeply committed one, but it was far from perfect. I
know that now, but if I could go back in time to tell
myself that in an attempt to save myself from all of
that pain and suffering, I fear I would not have
listened to myself.

I slept with many women, sometimes a different girl
every week. I drank excessively and spent all of my
money on temporary satisfaction. Anything to ease the
pain. But the pain did not ease, it only grew
stronger. It became a vicious circle of self-inflicted
torture that eventually brought me to my knees and
forced me to open my eyes to the real world. But not
before it made me a bitter man.
I was wiser, but to this day, the decisions made left
a coldness in my eyes that made my heart appear as
lead to anyone who dared look. I became a loner,
staying home on the weekends, saving my money for a
healthy but lonely retirement, having accepted my
fate. I was to be alone for the rest of my life.
Kathy with a K. Actually, her name is spelled Kathyrn.
Quite peculiar, but I didn't think so until later. For
the longest time, I never even knew her name. But she
was a sight for sore and lonely eyes. I saw her at
work. I was her boss (actually, I was her boss' boss)
and did not want to risk the chance of even speaking
to her. She was just too beautiful, and I had become a
beast with a past too horrible to mention. I would
just watch her as she passed my office every day. She
didn't walk, she frolicked, and I would sneak out for
a break whenever she did just to watch that
frolicking. She smiled every time someone spoke to
her, a smile like the early morning
sun, and her eyes were so dark that you couldn't see
her pupils, only the glimmering from the light that
made her eyes look like two bright stars. I was under
her spell and I didn't even know her name. One day,
watching her outside, I convinced myself to ask around
about her. Find out her name and maybe even find out
if she was seeing someone. Just as I had decided that
she spoke to me. Kathy with a K. She ended up asking
me out, you know. I told her I couldn't that night
because I had to work late.
Actually, I was too scared. I called her and asked her
if she wanted to go to Starbucks after work the next
day and she agreed. It turned out to be the most
romantic night of both of our lives. We were both
still pretty new in town and didn't really know our
way around. I had no idea what I was going to do or
where I was going to take her next so I winged it the
whole way. Like I said, it turned out to be the most
romantic night of both of our lives. It was perfect.

She was not perfect, but neither was I. We both
carried a truckload of emotional baggage and we both
had a mountain of flaws. But it was perfect. She would
always forget to plug in her cell phone at night, but
I would always remind her. I couldn't do laundry worth
a flip, but she showed me how. She could never get to
work on time, and she hated to drive, but we both had
to be at work on time so I drove us both there.
Whenever she was slacking I was always right over her
shoulder, and when I would lose track of what I was
trying to do, she would help to keep me focused. We
complemented each other in every single way. Neither
of us was perfect, but we were perfect for each other.

When you're out there looking for that perfect person
keep these things in mind. People change, no matter
how hard they try not to. As you grow older you
mature, and with each new level of maturity come
different ideas, different needs and wants. The person
who was perfect for you at twenty could be the person
you hate when you're thirty-five. You have to find
some one who will grow with you, change with you,
laugh with you and cry with you. A person who fills in
where you lack, a person whom you can fill in for when
they are lacking. But what about the perfect person,
you ask? They do not exist. Even Malia was not perfect
because the perfect girl in my dreams was supposed to
stay with me.

There are no perfect people, only people who are
perfect for each other.

You deserve to be happy not in the arms of someone who
keeps you waiting but in the arms of someone who will
take you now