Perfectly Happy

When I was growing up, every summer we used to travel to Quincy, Illinois, a small town on the mighty Mississippi, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa. My friends that didn’t know the ins and outs of Quincy, thought it was just another Midwestern dot on the map colored in with strip malls, pick-up trucks, and corn fields. But for us, those that knew its secrets, Quincy never failed to deliver seven days of absolute joy. 

It always seemed to be nighttime when we arrived. After dinner, almost bedtime. We would be greeted with a tray of cookies, eight or nine rows deep, and permission to go ahead, have three or four, just don’t make your stomach upset. For a second grader with a stomach made of steel, I could have eaten ten Holly Dollies before I ever got sick, but appreciated the relaxed cookie rules. Bedtime was pushed back an hour or so, we all grabbed our favorite sweets, and we told our grandparents about our plays, dance recitals, ball games, and art projects while my Grandpa started to 'rest his eyes' in his chair.

Waking up in the morning meant homemade cinnamon-laced zucchini bread with a side of cream cheese (I always wondered who put cream cheese on their zucchini bread), radio rolls from Underbrink's bakery, and Wheaties - the breakfast of Champions that legend has it my Uncle Jim ate with conviction every morning. I went straight for the pastries. 

After breakfast we would turn over the geodes that lined the garden to find potato bugs, play wiffle ball with the big red bat, and toss a ball back and forth with a wooden scoop set that we called "tacroll." All were just a series of efforts to kill time before lunch - the main meal of the day - a feast that might include spaghetti and meatballs, roast beef, or strip steaks, served with sides of mashed potatoes, jello salad, green bean casserole, and buttery garlic bread.

Then it was time - time to pack up, pack in the Buick, and make our way to the pool, and not just any pool, Spring Lake. It was huge - Centennial Beach huge. It was basically a man made lake with a sand bottom, two slides, a diving board, lap lanes, beaches, and more space than you could ever imagine to play underwater tag - a game that my Dad excelled at because of his inhuman ability to run on the sand bottom of the pool. 

Our pruned hands and feet couldn't get us out. Only one thing could – snack time on F 59. And there was only one reasonable choice, a Deter’s Chipwich – a wonderful 400 calorie frozen confection that melted on the way down and filled that minor cavity I had developed after lunch.

Leaving the pool at the end of the day was always tough. Sad. But promises of dinner in the main dining room of Spring Lake, Maid Rites (a fried Pork Tenderloin sandwich for me), or fried catfish at the Patio, made it okay. 

In the evenings we would browse through the colorful encyclopedias in the attic, play Monopoly or Memory, gawk at the collection of porcelain dolls that my Aunt Ann still had displayed in her bedroom, reenact the founding of this great city with the extensive cowboy and Indian set, play ping pong, catch fireflies in mason jars, and eat one last Holly Dolly before being tucked in for bed by not only two people that loved me, but four.

When the week came to an end, and when it was time to say goodbye, my grandparents would stand in front of their house and give us hugs. Everyone got a little teary eyed. My Grandpa would give me one last squeeze and tell me, “always stay as happy as you are.”

Twenty-some years later, I still think about his simple instructions and assess how well I've done. I'm very happy. I'll give myself an A. But there are days here and there when I get sad - when I think I've let my Grandpa down - and when I hate that I can't be as carefree as I used to be under my grandparents watch in Quincy. 

Yesterday was one of those days. I had wrapped up the work day, and went downtown to try on my wedding dress for the first time. It was the wrong time of the month, and I knew it might not be the best idea to put it on. The attendant helped me step in, zipped me up, and said in so many words, "voila!" I didn't look in the mirror and think wow, this is perfect. In fact, I had a hard time even looking at myself. My chest was too big, my hair was a matted down mess, my makeup had smeared, my shoulders and arms looked bigger than I wanted them to, my stomach wasn't concave and of course my nails looked awful. I scrutinized myself to death and only felt uplifted when I saw the marveling faces on SGS, Peggy, and Katie who had come with me to gape and gawk at the gown. I felt terrible, and I didn't know why.

I called my sister afterward, and midway through our conversation, I think she hit the nail on the head. She told me that our family tends to think we need to be perfect in all that we do. And it's impossible. There is no perfect. And you're going to drive yourself insane trying to achieve it. Her deduction was ironic, considering that my boss told me something very similar a week before during my midyear review. I guess I have gained a somewhat unhealthy obsession with perfection - in my job, in my appearance, in my relationships. And when all my hard work doesn't translate into perfect results, I tend to get overly and overtly frustrated.

But here's the thing, my Grandpa never told tell me to stay as perfect as I am. In fact, during those summers in Quincy, I'm sure I didn't exhibit perfect behavior. My nails were chewed then too, my stomach stuck out, I probably had permanent chocolate stains on my face, I pouted till my Dad escorted me over the algae-covered part of the sand so I could dive from the tower with him, and I tended to lose most of the board games. But I was very, very happy. That's what my Grandpa saw in me - and he never wanted me to lose it.

When I'm with Peter, I'm just that happy. And I know whether I'm sweating or bloated, whether my hair is dismantled or my nails are chipped, whether I trip and fall or end up leading Peter through our first dance, that Peter will think I look beautiful, just the way I am. And like my sister said, I will feel like a princess - not a perfect one, but a perfectly happy one who will make my Grandpa proud. 

Lo.