The documentation that came with my Lava lamp says that the imperfections in the globe are put there deliberately, to give each lamp its own individual character. I don’t know if I believe that or not, but I like the concept. Some of my best friends have individual imperfections. I have a few of my own.

Now, there’s nothing that particularly enhances my lifestyle in the fact that I have chronic allergies and fading eyesight and a wonky sciatic nerve. I can’t say I’d be the same person if I had a keen sense of smell, though. And maybe something comes out of the fact that I can’t read the small print on billboards any more, although it’s hard to see what it might be. And that limp I suffer occasionally — could that possibly have some kind of social value that I’m not even aware of?

Those are the kinds of physical imperfections that might be considered equivalent to the specks on the outside of the lamp globe. They’re a little like the lumps in my mashed potatoes (which also add to the character and mask the fact that I’m not an accomplished cook). It’s easy to say that the lumps are there on purpose. It’s even easier to accept them and overlook them.

All this clutter, along with the fact that I can’t find the time or energy to get rid of it, is part of my identity. That’s not a value judgment, one way or the other. It just is. It’s one of the tings that makes me different from the compulsive neat-freaks who must keep everything in its place. (That’s not a value judgment, either. Or is it?)

Sleep deficit is something I’m learning to live with. It’s not anything I’d wish on someone else, and it’s not something I’d seek out for myself. On the other hand, it’s been part of me at least since I was a teenager (if not longer). The long wakeful nights give my days some of the color and shade they have. I’d be someone else if I got all the sleep they tell me I need. I’m not sure I want to be someone else.

And come to think of it, I don’t want anyone I know, anyone in my life, to be someone else, either. I’m very happy to know so many imperfect people, because there isn’t a single one of them who doesn’t give me something special that I couldn’t get from someone who was perfect in every way. That’s what I think, anyway, although there could be some slight flaws in my thinking.

Specifically (and I might be misinterpreting here), the paperwork says, “The imperfections are not defects.” That’s a distinction I like. I can live with my own imperfections a little more naturally if I can stop thinking of them as defects. I only wish I could sing. I’d give up any hope of a sense of smell or eight hours of sleep if I could just carry a tune.