That Kind of Person

That Kind of Person

At long last, I buy a new car, and it’s exceedingly pretty. But I manage to scratch its electric blue metallic paint within days. I’ve no idea how—I didn’t fling the door against the garage or scrape into a parking spot. The scratch, a curlicue the length of my pinky, simply appears. All I can figure is that when leaning against my car, talking to a friend, the wire of a spiral notebook poked from my totebag.

The scratch isn’t obvious—I have to point it out to my husband—but I fret over it, sitting in my armchair. Between my fingers on the armrest, I can make out the ink I got on this chair the very day it arrived. The chair is ten years old now and looks great—I never got another stain beyond that first one—but boy did I beat herself up when my pen slipped onto the expensive upholstery I’d selected with such care.

Maybe, it occurs to me, that ink and the scratch are linked. Maybe I’m the kind of person who can’t stand the pressure of loving something pristine. Maybe I’m the kind of person who has to mar it almost immediately just to spare myself the stress of waiting for its inevitable violation.

That must be it. I’m that kind of person: proactive.

Now the scratch increases the pleasure I take in driving my pretty blue car.