I was lying in bed the other night in the little apartment my husband, Peter, and I rent in Mexico, and thinking that things were perfect. Then I wondered what that meant.
Because, without trying very hard at all, I could come up with things that were far from perfect -- in the world, in the neighborhood, even in my body if I really started digging. But it did not prevent me from feeling that -- at that moment, lying in bed, listening to the distant cacophony of noises outside my window -- things were, in fact, perfect. I thought about my day and decided it had to do with imperfection.
I only noticed my sheets because I could feel them against my legs. They are not 1,000-threadcount sheets. These are cotton sheets that have likely been used for a few years. They are sturdy and a little rough from drying on a clothesline on the roof.
