The perfect woman for me doesn’t have black hair, or red hair, or blonde hair, or blue eyes, or brown eyes, or amber eyes that hold the sunset in them.
She doesn’t exist.
The perfect me doesn’t exist, either. And that’s the good news. We can both inspire our partners to be okay with being just themselves–you know, imperfect.
And we can inspire our partners to, in their maitri for themselves, be better human beings. To walk an ever-unfolding path of growth and deepening, of humor instead of a hollow quest for cold, brittle perfection.
This is gold, Jerry, gold!
Savage truth (and the lie you want to live with):