Starting at the End: the lovliness of imperfection

I am in the coffee shop again, the coffee shop I didn’t think I’d like but wouldntcha know it’s ok. Warm and comfortable with seats in the back that are sort of private but not too dark. I feel slowly more comfortable, slowly the kernel of anxiety that was gripping my chest has subsided. I love the guy at the counter making coffee. He’ s good looking, latino of some sort, wavy hair and solid body—not skinny not fat not short not tall not musclebound but solid. His face is authentic and not too friendly (not “sales”) but still open in its way. He seems like he’d be genuine to anyone it makes sense to be genuine to, in whatever way it makes sense to be. Genuinely polite and helpful to clients, friendly to those he knows, not overly so to those he doesn’t. Somehow he’s well calibrated, balanced, thoroughly natural and correct in his dealings. The most important thing about him: his hands. They curl and sort of claw up exactly like Jim’s do. I’m fascinated and curious. Does he have the same condition? There’s just the slightest heaviness in his lower legs—or am I imagining things? Jim wears braces, has no muscle left below the knees, uses his thighs to lift the weight of his feet and gets a goofy lopsided smile when my hugs push him off balance. . The barista’s body is completely different—kind of squarer and shorter. Meatier ☺ what a word but don’t know how else to describe it. He has more meat on his bones. Jim is long. A long tall drink of water, as they say. Flashback to last weekend ☺ his body makes me go rrrrroowwrrr! I can’t even understand it, it’s crazy but now just smiling at the memory of how soft his skin is and how enveloped I felt, held by him. I’ve never had such an instant, seemingly entirely physical response to anyone. And dammit I do love his body. I do like his pigeon chest and spindly crippled legs and his hands that won’t open up. I do love all of that. I love the feel of my chest against his. I don’t love his difficulties or suffering or inabilities but I can’t help but feel like he’s special. Not March of Dimes poster boy special. Really, actually special. The perfectly-formed pretty boys I’ve dated since are entirely predictable and molded. Their bodies have never failed them, refused them, never had to work hard, never had to be coaxed or negotiated with, hardly even noticed. Taken for granted. Everyone knows what a beautiful person looks like naked but no one can guess the idiosyncrasies of imperfection. And the lovers of the imperfect have a beautiful lovely secret knowledge that only affection and trust allows them. It’s special.
Back to the barkeep. I’ve been staring at him, trying to see how his hands work, figure out if he maybe just holds them that way as some sort of affectation. But I don’t think so. He gave me my change exactly like Jim would—between his the bent knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. Like he’s trying to make one of those hand-faces drawn on with lipstick, like –who?—was it carol channing? Seeing it makes me feel instantly warm toward him. He’s like jim. I recognize the gestures and feel at home. And feel like I share a secret with him. Feeling unexpectedly warm and “amused as a grandmother” or whatever that phrase is in the Tao Te Ching. A couple of women sitting next to me discuss the struggle to find regular exercise they enjoy. One suggested yoga to the other. The other said she’s not balanced or flexible. That’s why you DO it, says the other. Don’t worry, you just can’t be competitive about it. I won’t be competitive, the other said—just awkward. Like everything else”. They laughed and I smiled too, witnessing the resistance to beginners mind in action. The unwillingness to be a fool, which you must be if you ever want to learn anything. And the awkwardness that everyone everywhere feels about something.