I M Perfect lady

The Island of Misfit Toys was the place in Rudy the Red Nosed Reindeer story. The place toys went that had been created wrong.  I can’t recall each misfit, but their action didn’t do as the fit ones did.

Yet on the Island, if you had a problem you fit right in, perfect.

Hey, you could have called it the Island of Imperfection.

The natives on the island expected, loved, understood, you, and your quirky nature.

It is unclear in my mind why this Island appears in the story…but I know we are taken there and shown around.

Maybe it was to show we all belong somewhere.  I felt sad for those left on the island of misfit toys, like no way could then fit in on the Island of Normal. 

How this appeared to me today, was that I was thinking of how my husband has the knack for fixing things that are broken, missing a part, in long neglect disrepair, a car or lawnmower that most would put in the junk yard, my husband takes home.

He has the patience of a saint, can see the potential and works little by little to bring it back into its original state.  We have seen many transformations that his hands have made.  And we have seen him milk along vehicles that truly are tired, worn down and ready to rest.

Just when you think, he can’t possible make it run again, he does.

We are forever sentenced to a life with a car for he won’t let it go, until he is certain it has lived its full life.

I know this may sound beautiful, but try riding around in a car that has more overused parts than new.  We have cars where, you have to remember to not put down the window…..that is right.  Don’t push the power button, or when you do, the window will fall quickly down into the door and disappear and it will take him many hours to get it back up.  So you have a window that goes down, but not up.  You don’t know how instinctual it is to just hit the button, mindlessly.

We once had one of these kinds of cars stolen, yes stolen.  The most expensive part on the car, was the full tank of Gas, oh and my stamps on the visor.  We cheered and laughed and were so gleeful, it is gone, but lo and behold by the end of the day, it was back in our yard.  It was found just a few miles away, undamaged, or so we think.  We couldn’t really tell what damage was new, for who remembered all it’s bumps and bruises.

You almost feel sad that one so damaged has so much damage that you can’t even see the new bruise.  And does the car get used to being so precariously balanced, or does it too feel….I will move today if I can and if not I will just stop.  It is not up to me.

Does the car remember being young, shining, new all things working, where it could breeze along the road happily!  Does it remember no dents and dings no overused parts?  Does it wish to go backwards, does it dream of a fixer-upper man?  Does it wait to die in the junkyard? Is there a heaven for cars?  Just so you know my husband shops in the junkyards, seeking that one part that still is good.

Now as I look back at my life, I can see why I married this man.

I was the perfect wife for him.

One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.

They say we marry the person who can heal your childhood wounds I for one know that is true.  He brought out in me the things that needed correcting.  You may recognize the ‘buttons’ that we seem to be able to push in each other, those are buttons of dysfunction.

A place where we have lost our power, a place where we have a wrong connection, a button that doesn’t do what it is supposed to do.

For some of us, we have been broken for sooo long we don’t even know what the normal function looks like, feels like or would recognize it.  Our normal is dysfunction.  We have lived so long on the Island of Misfits, that that is normal.

It isn’t until you leave the island that you look down and see. See the damage, the brokenness, uselessness abounds.  And is it possible for one misfit to fix another misfit, or do we need a fixer man.

But always remember, “One Man’s Junk, Is Another Man’s Treasure”

I should know. 

I have been both.

Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.