Short Story ~ Ideal ~ NL ~ 15

Ideal

By: Naomi Lea

As I was walking down the street, I saw a neon orange flyer pasted on a lamppost. It looked like those missing dog flyers, but it was all large, boldened text which read:

“Transformations to the Ideal”

-Must be able to follow instructions carefully

-Must want to change

Please contact Bob Brawnly at 383-523-6564

There wasn’t anything else on the paper. The offer seemed a little sketchy. Who would actually call that number? What would the “transformation” consist of? It was probably one of those weight loss things with the personal trainer and all that. But usually those advertisements had before and after pictures or some other persuasive tactics.

While pondering these thoughts, I heard a small camera shutter click right behind me. I turned my head and saw a boy in his late teens was holding his phone up to the flyer snapping a picture of it right behind me. Apparently, someone was interested.

He had short, wavy black hair and fair skin with hints of freckles on his cheeks near his eyes. He was tall, about six feet, and slightly broad shouldered. But, he looked as if he was still in the process of growing into his frame, seemingly lanky in the arms and legs.

He didn’t seem like he had anything major to change. He looked like the average dateable guy that any girl at my high school would like. He wasn’t ugly, by any common standards. Was he taking the picture for a friend?

He looked at me as I stared at him, making my observations. Perhaps he was wondering the same things that I was: why was this flyer catching the other’s interest? He was the first to speak.

“So, you looking to change?” he asked me.

“I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking of what’s all in that ‘transformation’ process,” I replied, facing the flyer again.

“Only one way to find out, right?” he suggested with a small shrug.

“Yeah, only if you really want to find out. Why do you care anyways? Why do you need a transformation?” I asked him.

“Why wouldn’t you want to change yourself to be better?” he quickly asked back, “Don’t you care about improving yourself?”

“Huh, you’re one of those, aren’t you? Those goal oriented, purpose driven, success seeking guys who want it all,” I said, realizing his type. 

Now it made sense. I bet he was someone who always had the grades, never crossed the line, and found his way among the bright side of things. He probably just wants to be ahead of the rat race, get he goods while he can. I didn’t care for such things. If he wants to transform into what ever his ideal is, Mr. Mega-brown nosing-popular guy, then he could go right ahead.

“You’re trying to peg me into a ‘type’? Fit me into a box? Wow,” he said letting out a big exhale, “Maybe you’re the one who needs to be calling this guy.”

“Hey, everybody wants to be in a box. That’s what ‘ideal’ means anyways, right? You want to fit in your perfect, imaginary box of who you want to be. Well, hate to break it to you,” I say with a sarcastic wince, “But we live in a real world where there’s no such thing as ‘perfect’.”

“Alright, I see where you’re coming from. So maybe we should all be like you,” he said as he gestured at me up and down, “Cynical, sarcastic, and never failing because trying takes too much effort. You spend your time ridiculing others for their attempts at surviving in this ‘imperfect’ world and mocking their ‘ideals’ whatever they are. You’re like the kid on the bench who never gets up to play, but all the while has the idea that she can do better than all of them, if only she just felt like getting up. But of course, you couldn’t be bothered, could you?”

“Hah. Thanks for the pep talk, coach.” I say with flatly. 

“Figured I’d take a stab at your box-sorting. It’s not so fun when other people try to contain you to a ‘type’, is it?” he said with a laugh.

“You get used to it,” I say nonchalantly, “And then you realize that the issue is not that you’re in a box, but you’re not in the right one.”

He paused, and his face sobered a little. “Hey, yeah, I know what that’s like. That’s, like, my whole life,” he said tiredly. “Maybe that’s why I want this transformation thing. I have a lot of people looking over my shoulder all the time. I just want to make them happy. I just want them to be proud. I don’t want to disappoint them,” he said as his gaze fell towards his feet.

“Yeah, I get that. Well, hey, just so this doesn’t turn into an episode of Dr. Phil, why don’t you tell me what things you want to change about yourself? What your ‘ideal’?” I ask him.

“Well, first I want to be stronger,” he said numbering with his index finger.

“Okay, well, hit the gym, drink those protein shakes, and you’ll be the brawniest of the bunch. Problem solved,” I say with a synchronous wink and snap of my fingers.

“Right, yeah, not just physically,” he said smiling and rolling his eyes. “I want to be mentally and emotionally stronger, too. I want to be able to take anything anyone throws at me; insults, patronizing comments, you name it. I don’t want to react in ways that will screw me up later, you know?”

Crossing my arms, I said, “Don’t we all? We are always going to screw things up with our words. Especially those of the human race who have hormonally intense times every month!” I say unabashedly. But as an afterthought, I add, “Sorry if that’s too much.”

“No, it’s okay. I have sisters,” he said reassuringly. Then he smiled and went on with, “But I don’t want those situations to happen. I want to be in control.”

“Look, if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we’re going to screw up. Girl or boy, mistakes will happen. Words will be taken wrong. What really matters is that you say you’re sorry when it happens,” I said.

“Woah, so much for not being an episode of Dr. Phil!” he said laughingly. Then, getting serious again, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “So what about you? You were at the flyer first. What do you want to change?”

“Okay, just to make things clear,” I said as I put my hands up defensively, “that was totally a coincidence. I thought it was one of those missing pet notices and that’s why it caught my attention.”

He eyed me suspiciously.

“But,” I continue, “If I were to change anything about myself, it would probably be my appearance.”

“What?” he exclaimed in surprise, “Why would you want to do that? What would you want to change? Don’t tell me it’s to be skinnier.”

“Hey Mr. Stereotype-all-the-females, calm down. It’s not only that, but also my sense of style. I want to be more, girl-like with how I dress and carry myself and all of that. It’s weird being a girl and not knowing how to really be a girl. It doesn’t come natural to me,” I say. I realize how much I’ve just said and feel nervous to say anymore.

“Well, you look pretty girl-like to me,” he said with a grin. “I don’t know what else you’re going for. But, maybe if you get some other girl friends to help, they could give you some tips?”

“Yeah, that whole ‘asking-for-help’ thing isn’t really my thing,” I say quickly.

“Alright, my turn to be Dr. Phil,” he said in a mockingly professional tone, “You are always going to need help. No matter how old you are or how young and able you feel, it’s inevitable. There’s always something you’re not going to know,”

“Woah Doc, that’s some solid advice there,” I said with eyebrows raised. 

We both laughed a little and then became quiet. We kept the silence for a few moments, thinking about each other’s advice.

He broke the silence first with, “So, maybe my ‘ideal’ isn’t what I thought it was. I think it’s changed now.”

“Well, that’s the good thing about ideals, right? They aren’t ‘real’, so they can be changed anytime. They’re all in your head,” I said.

He grinned again and with a nod said, “Right. All in the imagination. But, I think they’re in there for a reason.”

“Why?” I asked, “So we can argue about them like we’re on a psychiatric television talk show?”

Laughingly he said, “Yeah! I like talking like this. It’s my ‘ideal’ conversation.”

And then, with a small, yet genuine smile, I replied, “Me, too.”