The perfection of imperfection

It was on the last winter vacation when my wife and I decided that we need some quality time away from the kids.
We hired a nanny and decided to take a 3 day romantic ski trip.
We packed our bags with the strict necessities – incense candles, strawberries, whip cream and fine wine – almost forgot the skis :) and way we went to Mammoth Mountain.

The trip was unusually quiet.
No more “are we there yet?” no more arguing over the DVD, no more fights every five minutes.
We even could listen to our favorite music on the way, chat for a while and just hold hands like high school sweet hearts.

“This is going to be perfect” I was thinking to myself driving.
3 long nights of passionate love making without worrying of waking up the kids.
No more covers pulled over, no more lights off and pulled down blinds.
No more feeling like robbing a bank in the middle of the night!

So we get lodged in the hotel, light up the candles, open up the wine and one hour later – that’s including all the preparations – the night of passionate love making ended in a mutual agreement that a night of good and quiet sleep was as romantic as love making.
We decided we will resume the romance as soon as we recharged our batteries – and no I don’t mean that literally.

The next day was perfect.
Perfect weather, perfect snow.
We ski all day long, had a lovely diner and went back to the hotel.
This time we did not light up the candles or put on romantic music; we went directly for the ointments.
Nothing feels as good after a day of skiing as a rub with Ben Gay and Icy – Hot cream.
What sex?
We crawled into bed and decide to postpone the romance for the next night.

But the next day disaster strikes!
We woke up in the middle of a blizzard.
The perfect weather was gone and the slopes were closed because of the high winds.
We had to make a decision:
Stay, and hope the weather changes.
Or; cut the trip short and head back for home.

So here we were, driving back after just 2 nights and 1 day of ski vacation.
The truth was that we both wanted to go back.
The truth was that we spent more time worrying about what the kids were doing that enjoying the vacation.
But we did not want to talk about it. We just knew it and that was just fine.

We got home in the evening and the kids screamed and jumped all over with joy.
So here I was laying on my bed with both my daughters in my arms, trying to avoid Lucky – our dog – French kissing me and in my mind I was thinking.
This romantic trip turned out to be a disaster, but for some strange reason it felt perfect to me.
I wouldn’t have change anything of it, even if I could.
...
For some strange reason we all want our lives to be perfect.
The fear of failure tells us to keep it safe.
Our bruises and scars remind us that the road out there is tough.
We build walls around our bodies and our souls to protect us.
We decide to stay inside instead of venturing out.

I know the road out there is full of bumps and pot holes but I decided that the bruises and scars are worth the journey.
I’m not afraid of pain anymore. As long as I can feel pain I know I am alive.
I don’t see my scars as ugly anymore. I see them as badges of courage.
I decided to live instead of slowly dying.

I don’t expect my life to be perfect anymore.
I expect it to be better than that.
I expect my life to be awesome!