It's Tough Being Perfect

Just another day. I woke up suddenly, like a man being shoved into a cold pool. The air was clean in the bedroom, and my cat hadn’t smothered me in the night. It was going to be okay.

But then I remembered I was devastatingly beautiful.

How can a man make it through life being so stunning? Oh, it’s fine for you. You go through your life, your potato-like average faces allowing you the piece of mind granted by your anonymity. What happens to you when you enter the grocery store? Nothing. You go in, you see some bell peppers, you put them in your cart, the people around you don’t stare.

Do you want to experience my visit to the store? No, you do not. Imagine your perfect trapezius muscles bulging as you pick up the milk. Men and women three aisles over swoon with delight, instinctively feeling the disturbance in the area. “Someone indescribably hot just flexed,” their subconscious screams, and then I have to duck as they begin prowling the building, searching for the source of their desire. I frequently come home without groceries.

They say that life is easier for us. I laugh liltingly at your insinuations. Ha. Ha ha ha. Oh sure, I’ve been granted every job for which I’ve interviewed, and a few others besides, but I didn’t want them. I tried to say no once to a prospective boss, his eyes searching my perfectly symmetrical face, pleading silently for my approval. When I said no, his wails filled the room with siren-like pulses of pain. He didn’t stop weeping, even though I tried to comfort him, and I heard later that he’s no longer capable of speech. So yeah, rejection is just not in the cards for me. I can’t have that blood on my hands.

What made me this way? Who’s to tell. My parents are worthy of love, even passably tolerable in their own quaint way. But during their frequent fawning FaceTime sessions they often repeat the story of my birth:

“You were born on a Friday, the most perfect day, my dearest son,” my father says.

“I had no idea you were coming, for my pregnancy was like unto a vacation upon a swan’s back,” my mother adds, tears beginning to form in the corners of her ordinary eyes.

My father nods and continues the story “All I remember is going to sleep, and then waking to a great light-” and here his voice catches “-and lo, you were delivered unto us.”

My mother does not contradict him. “I did not feel any pain, as the beauty of your face erased all memory of it.”

Can you imagine the weight of this burden?

So be happy, simple people. I’ll try my best to empathize with you. I bet it’s quite relaxing to wander the halls of your places of work - where do you ugly people work? I’m sure it’s somewhere equally hideous - with no one bugging you. You can go to the bathroom without having to lock it to deter hangers-on. You can pick up the coffeepot without having at least three co-workers grasp your steel-cable biceps. I can’t tell you how much good French Roast has spilled from such encounters. It’s a shame

I do have a couple of questions: what is it like to pay traffic fines? I feel like I’ve been shirking my duties as a taxpaying citizen, because every time I get caught running a red light I simply receive a Valentine’s card in the mail from the State Patrol. They usually draw little hearts around my picture, which is charming, but I feel like I should at least send them a few bucks.

My other query: does anyone else feel completely empty inside?

Ah, the torture of being perfect. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.