Yesterday I started physical therapy. Before I left the house in the rental car, I parked my wrecked car in the driveway and put the keys in the pocket of the door. I left the beat-up mats inside even though Dad said I could sell them at a garage sale. “Five dollars is five dollars,” he said. “It just sounds like another thing to do,” I answered. But I did try to take the stereo system out, even though I was unsuccessful and cracked the plastic frame. I thought, Oh shit! then remembered that the car was totaled and about to be someone else’s problem. Fuck it. (I think that’s a spiritual saying.)

Since the accident I’ve been even more aware of my poor posture, so when I got to therapy yesterday, instead of slouching like I usually do, I sat straight up in the chair. (It was extremely uncomfortable, and I guess it basically amounted to cleaning your house BEFORE the maid comes over.) Anyway, the meeting went well, and by that I mean he told me I have arthritis in my neck, so–since I’m falling apart–maybe I should get a wheelchair instead of a new car. Now I have stretches to do twice a day, three times if I want, but no more than that. (At this point in the conversation, he actually made a comment about overachieving–like it was a bad thing.)

When I got home last night, my wrecked car (Polly), the one I got from Grandma when she died, was gone. The tow company the insurance company hired had come to pick it up. On one hand, I’m glad to see it go. I didn’t really care for the color and I’m excited about the new-to-me car I’m planning to get next week. On the other hand, I’m sort of sad. I’ve driven Grandma’s cars since college, as the one I had before Polly–Wanda the Honda–came from her too. That’s a lot of memories and a lot of miles. So much of my life spent in that car, driving to work, listening to music, spilling coffee on the mats. I’ve never said this out loud, but I always thought it was one way Grandma and I could be close, since we never really were, unless close means buying your gay grandson a Ford F-150 wall clock for Christmas.

Uh, thanks, Grandma, but I’m not a lesbian.

You know how when a criminal escapes from prison, people describe them by their scars and tattoos? Well, as I think about Polly, that’s what I remember–all the imperfections. There were the coffee stains of course, a couple cigarette burns, maybe from me, maybe from Grandma. She smoked Virginia Slims. There was the spot in the bumper when I backed into a light pole after a church concert. Ugh. More coffee on the mats. The speakers–sucked.

Last year I rescued two puppies on the side of the road. I kept them for as long as I could, but they were too much, what with closing the studio, having the estate sale, thinking about moving. So I took them to the Humane Society. A couple months later I spent an hour looking at pictures on their Facebook page until I found out they had new homes. Even after we said goodbye, their paw prints remained on my car windows for over six months. I only recently washed them off.

Today, after breakfast and neck stretches, I went to the chiropractor for a massage, an adjustment, and some sort of TENS therapy for the spasm in my back. All of those treatments were done by three different people, so it felt like I was a soccer ball getting passed from one person to the next–down the hallway, past the refrigerator, into the back room with the cute guy who said, “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.” Score!

I noticed the chiropractor today was wearing a pair of black cowboy boots. I also noticed while lying on the table that there was a spot on the ceiling where the sheet rock needed to be patched and painted. I don’t know if it’s my personality or the fact that I’m a writer, but this is shit that actually takes up space in my brain, little details that most people would have long forgotten. But all day I’ve been wondering why that one spot hasn’t been fixed, since it’s pretty obvious from looking around the place that the owner is a perfectionist–everything in just the right place. (Also, someone at the office today said, “The owner’s a perfectionist.”) As for the boots, I’m still trying to figure out why they’re stuck in my head.

There’s gotta be a reason.

This evening I did my neck stretches again, and then I stretched on a foam roller and did chi kung. For the most part, all of these things–including the treatments at the chiropractor–feel good. But certain things feel like a fight, as if I’m wanting the muscles in my neck and back to move one way–flexible, fluid–and they’re saying, “Hell no, we won’t go.” So it occurred to me just how hard I’m working lately to get everything in just the right place. Yesterday the physical therapist said, “You look like you’re really working to sit up straight,” and I almost cried. You have no idea how hard I’m working. It’s like I have this idea about the perfect body in my head, and mine doesn’t measure up. My shoulders are rounded. My neck sticks out. I see total strangers with good posture, neck over shoulders, and think, They must be so happy.

As I think about those cowboy boots now, I know why I noticed them. They were brand new, not an imperfection about them. Anything but worn in, they looked–uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why he walked the way he did. (Do you think it would be weird if I asked him to take his boots off, turn around, and saunter down the hallway so I could compare?) Anyway, I used to have a pair of cowboy boots like that. But by the time I got rid of them, they were all scuffed up and full of stories–line dances I’d taught, parties I’d been to. I actually think I was wearing them one of the first times I held my nephew. If I wasn’t, I should have been.

I think it’s fascinating that it’s almost always the imperfections that stand out, the things we remember about our favorite pair of shoes, the cars we drive, the people we love. I used to date a guy who was a forceps baby. He was hot to begin with, but he had this scar to the side of his mouth where the doctors had pulled him out, and it was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. I’m not discounting the perfect, of course. There’s nothing like the smell of a new car, nothing like the look of a dancer’s back.

Still, almost everyone in my family has rounded shoulders, a neck that sticks out ever so slightly. Put us all around a kitchen table, and we naturally lean into each other. Even now, sitting here all alone, I can feel what it’s like to hug each one of them, my arms slipped around their curvy backs, the way our shoulders connect in such a way that no one could slip between us if they tried. It’s in these moments that I forget my self-judgments and stop trying so hard to be perfect, that I remember what cars and boots and bodies are for. It’s in these moments that I can look at myself in the mirror and, seeing all my twists and turns, fall in love with every imperfect mile.