I had this stunning realization today while driving. I love my truck. Have since high school. It’s small. It’s yellow. It gets the job done. Today I’m driving back to my place and I hear my shocks squeaking. My leathers ripped. My buttons are weathered or missing. My side seat panel falls off. My passenger door is offset. My CD player doesn’t work. And I never think about that stuff. Ever. I drive a few hours a week and I never think about the imperfections, even when I’m directly dealing with them. Even in those testing moments, that yellow truck is perfect.
Now my girlfriend is probably upset because this is about my truck and not her. I get it. The thing is though is that every blue moon I glimpse these imperfections with my truck. That doesn’t happen with her. They’re there. They have to be there; no ones perfect. But they’re not there for me.
And that’s just pretty darn alright.