For some reason, images of Scarlett Johansson are suddenly hijacking my mind’s eye. But…
The perfect woman is a lesson in beauty. She has waist-length hair that is yet to be profaned by chemicals with fruits in them, weaves and extensions, and smells like the spring. Her face is a seasoned blend of delicacy and femininity; with sensuous eyes and flawless teeth. Her smile is like a brilliant orb that charms as it disarms, and her laugh is the peal of a hundred heavenly bells. And every time I gaze at her I feel my sanity depart.
She has a graceful neck; long and slender, that dips ever so gently into a masterful curve and stretches into wide shoulders. Her breasts are everything that words cannot describe; firm, full, rounded, utterly intoxicating, and the loveliest things one can expect to see. Then there is her slender waist, the generous posterior, the silken thighs and the stately legs. My soul goes up in flame at the thought.
The perfect woman is an excellent dresser. She possesses the ability to look stunning in the filthiest of rags, and the understanding that one does not need to be dressed to look good. She has a healthy disregard for shopping, and floats past boutique display windows with a sneer and a derisive smirk. So when she stumbles upon shoes she likes, she thinks fondly of the three pairs she already has and shakes her head to banish the spirits of greed.
This woman dwells in a hive of practicality. She showers for a record five minutes, then spends two minutes at the dressing table wondering how she came to possess so many cosmetics. She does not play games with her clothes. She could not care less whether the cute yellow top can be colour blocked with her fitting skirt. When she asks how she looks, the honest answer is ‘perfect’, but if by any chance she gets any other response, she sees it as a challenge and not a subtle hint that she is fat. And her handbag contains only cell phone, charger and wallet.
She can read my mind, and she knows me better than I know myself. She completes all my sentences, she anticipates me and she genuinely thinks I am the funniest thing to ever walk this earth. God’s gift to her.
She has a rudimentary understanding of football, so she functions as my assistant manager during games. And she is very vocal about her disappointment in a certain coach who cannot possibly remember what a trophy looks like.
She is utterly vexed by anything dramatic, so her hatred of soap operas is matched only by mine. She speaks English, not the International Women’s Dialect that has been modified to include words like ‘xwirrie’ and ‘aki woiye’. She also understands the male language, and is thus aptly equipped to interpret ‘I am bored’ as ‘I am suddenly in the mood to rip clothes off’.
The perfect woman…the perfect woman. To think of her is to flirt with insanity.
And now the return to realism.
I wonder how advanced the bio technical field is these days. Robotics, molecular cloning? Surely someone is building a perfect woman as we speak? Well, dibs on the first one. I think I’ll name her Scarlett.