Perfectly Perfect
Finding peace and harmony and fresh, hot coffee
I was about to write a first sentence here about being a perfectionist, and then I didn’t really like the sentence and deleted it, tried it again, deleted it again, and then realized I was in a fevered feedback loop of living in my sentence that rivaled an episode of “Severance”. I have thus proven to you that I am a perfectionist. This trait applies to most, but not all, areas of my life. The biggest and most obvious one is writing. (More on that in a minute.) Another—the one that led to this screed—is in all matters of design. I have an overly active visual sensitivity, and while it often gives me pleasure—anytime I see something pretty—it can also be a certain amount of hell.
The other day, I needed to buy a coffee machine for the guest room at our house in Santa Barbara. I’m a Nespresso partisan. There are several different Nespresso machines, most of them black, as well as a few in colors that are unpleasantly bright, and a white one that always is out of stock.
I ordered a black one, thinking it was the reliable choice, and headed to Santa Barbara to set up the machine for our next lucky guest, whoever that might be. (I’m assuming he or she likes coffee.) As I started to remove the machine from its box, my eye roved around the room, making note of the colors. The walls are white. The floor is light gray polished concrete. The cabinets are either honey-colored or natural, blonde wood. The countertops are a bright white. There is nothing black in sight.
