I remember the good old days when my grandma would spend an hour every night weaving a tale (mostly a romantic one ... pretty sure it was either her own or one of her dreams!!) as my bedtime story. I didn’t realise how profoundly they had impacted me until recently.
The
story often featured a handsome prince, who would find a common girl beautiful,
would charm her with his looks and wit, sweep her off the floor, make her
question if they belonged together at all, convince her that they did without a
doubt, and finally elope with her in his horse into the sunset, to live happily
ever after.
All
those years of hearing this picture-perfect life almost every night, had
subconsciously etched this template and as a result constructed the idea of
“Mr. Perfect” in my head. I hate my grandma today for all those nights.
I
had become that common girl on the quest to find my Mr. Perfect without
understanding the full sense of that redundant story. It was just wrong on so
many levels and definitely not a baton to be passed on to the younger
generations.
The
common girl was a shy, timid girl afraid of standing up to stalkers. The common
girl avoided approaching someone even if she liked him because Mr. Perfect
would not wait for the girl to approach. The common girl was not ambitious
because she was bound to elope with Mr. Prince someday and too much ambition
would come in the way of their happiness. The common girl believed that
“finding love” or rather “for love to find her” is her only destiny.
So
I waited for my Mr. Perfect. Many tried, but they lacked something which didn’t
make them my Mr. Perfect. Some couldn’t make me laugh, some didn’t approach me
with dignity, some couldn’t make me trust them, some although were courteous
and had a sense of humour, didn’t pursue me, and woo me. “So close!” I would
think to myself. Undeterred … I continued with my quest. Some were not anywhere
near Mr. Perfect and some were not enough to be Mr. Perfect.
28
years done and I was still searching. My Mr. Perfect had not yet come. I could
go on but my family obviously couldn’t. I confided in my mother about my quest
and grandma’s story. She burst into laughter and asked me if I knew my
grandfather. He had died long before I was born of some sickness. My mother
revealed that my grandma’s Mr. Perfect was a drunk retard who fell down the
well and drowned to his death.
“Whaaaat
!!” I gasped. My mom woke me up from my dream into reality and said “Dear,
there is no Mr. Perfect. There is hardly any Mr. Decent these days and when you
find a Mr. Decent you like, you hold on to him. Mr. Perfect is a myth just like
your grandma’s stories.”
My
family then found me my Mr. Decent and I have decided to marry him. Hope he doesn’t
turn out to be a drunk retard too. Even if he does, I’m definitely not telling
the “Mr. Perfect” story to my grandkids.
Cheers!
Will be back with another one soon.
