A couple days ago, something I was working on with a friend reminded me of this story.
When my girls were younger (our oldest, Rebecca, was between her junior and senior years of high school), we visited Italy. Rebecca asked her friends what she could bring back to them, and one of them said, “Find me the perfect Italian man, and convince him to come back to me.” We kidded the whole time about guys that we passed and how we would fit them into our suitcases; but when we went to the Academia and Rebecca saw Michelangelo’s David and heard of how the artist painstakingly worked on the marble wonder, making every muscle, tendon, and appendage absolutely perfect, she was entranced. She went right outside and bought two little statues from a street vendor, one for her friend and one for herself. When we got home, all her girlfriends went crazy over it and thought it was the funniest thing ever–that Rebecca had found the perfect man in Italy. Since then, I have never been able to gaze at that statue without thinking of David as the perfect male specimen!
Alas, David was far from perfect.
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