The First

When it's new, it's like magic. Everything seems perfect. You go about your day feeling light and happy, with a smile on your face.

Yes, there might be this slight nagging unease that it won't last forever; that something will eventually mar what is now new and unblemished. But you push it aside and revel in what you have now.

Then your child opens the car door right into a metal post in a parking lot.

The first dent is always the hardest.

The magic over, your disappointment deep, you briefly despair over the clunker you now own. What was perfect for a time will never be so again. But quickly you remember it is just a material object, and you snap out of it.

It was an accident; no malice was intended. And if it hadn't been incurred by her, it would have been incurred by someone else on another day. It was bound to happen. And anyway, it's barely noticeable.

Alas, my new car has its first dent. Although anyone else likely won't notice its existence - it's not a large dent - I do. I was there when it happened and I know exactly where the imperfection rests. I can look at it any time I want.

But I don't. It was heartbreaking in the moment it happened, but it's over. In a way, it's a relief. The tension of wondering when the first imperfection would occur, and how, is broken.

As in relationships, it's those small imperfections - the ones you can live with - that make it unique. That make it your own.

Well, it's my own now. And for the next several years, it's over: I won't have to wonder when and how my car will receive its first imperfection. That moment has passed, and life goes on...