Practically Perfect

I believe that perfection is basically unattainable, but only by the tiniest of margins. I think we come so close to perfection and maybe catch glimpses of it but we only truly know it once or twice in our lifetime. I'm ok with that. What I have come to realize in my twenty-four years (yes 24, I know I seem as wise as a woman who has lived two lifetimes) is that I have moments and experiences that are practically perfect. 

I have had nights that are practically perfect. There are nights where I recognize what is happening and I take a beat to soak it all in. I absorb the laughter and friendship. Last summer I went out for the unofficial 5 year high school reunion for the class of 2007. There couldn't have been more than 12 or so of us at our favorite bar but it didn't matter. We told old stories and laughed at our classmates, our teachers, each other. Timeworn jokes became just as funny as the day they happened and the warm blanket of familiarity fit snugly around us all. It was practically perfect.  

Just last week I spent five plus hours in a pub in Boston with some of my favorite people. Embarrassing stories were traded and memories relived and new adventures told. There was beer and smiles and giant hugs and sarcasm and love. It was practically perfect. 

Those are examples of what my favorite practically perfect nights are like. I have fuzzy memories of practical perfection from my younger days. I remember building snow forts in our subdivision, our mothers watching warmly from inside the house. I remember summers spent barefoot from sun up to sun down. I remember rushing to the barn first thing and being on my horse until it was so dark I couldn't see her ears. I remember summer league softball. My childhood was practically perfect. 

Small moments can also exist in the frame of practical perfection. I recently had a texting conversation with an old friend that lives on the complete opposite coast from me and it made me feel not so alone for the night. We shared laughs and fears and anxiety. A text conversation, something so small and used so often, yet it filled me with contentment. It was practically perfect. 

I've had cups of coffee that are so good they seem perfect. There's been nights when I swear my beer was perfect. And each time I smile and recognize how practically perfect it tastes. 

Books, movies, songs...they too can be practically perfect. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green is as close to perfect as I've read. I find Phantom of the Opera an almost perfect movie.

So maybe people say you shouldn't even bother reaching for perfection because it's impossible. Maybe they'll tell you it simply isn't worth the effort. "Go home," they'll say. Isn't that settling? Because without reaching for those perfect moments, I don't think we'd hit those practically perfect moments, those practically perfect nights...and I'd hate to live in a world without them. 

I have in no way included all of my memories of my brush with perfection. (I mean how do I even describe the wedding in Florida? Or my 21st birthday party? Or the Carrie Underwood concert?) Some things are better left unsaid.

I can honestly say I believe I've had one perfect day. It involved pink shirts, pink hair, and it was full of people I love. Can ya guess?