A vision of perfection

People. They're such interesting creatures.

I spent this past weekend in St. Augustine and realized there is a magical plethora of people to watch there. Dirty hippies. Bums. Foreigners. Street musicians. Generally crazy people.

Good stuff.

But there was one lovely lady who stood out in the crowd. She rivals Maki's Dangerous Beauty. My husband and I were crossing the Bridge of Lions and encountered her among the pedestrian cross-traffic. She was a tiny gal (though most are, in comparison), sporting a pair of denim shorts and a pale pink camisole. She must've taken a nasty spill recently, as her right knee had a giant square of gauze taped onto it. Her hair was filthy and disheveled, and she was toting two plastic grocery bags full of aluminum cans, likely from her afternoon trash can raid in the park.

But the piece de resistance would be the glittery word written across the camisole: Perfect.

Ah, yes. Perfect. Though in my head, I heard it with a tinge of sarcasm, with a choice expletive in front of it. Now before you ask, no, I did not take a picture. First of all because I'm not that quick on the draw with the camera. Secondly, even in times when I enjoy being a blatant bitch, I didn't want to make the obvious mad-dash for the camera and snap one off in her face Paparazzi-style. Now should I have had a camera phone, I'd have no qualm about it. But I don't, so I didn't.

You'll have to paint this vision of "perfect" for yourselves.