I think the one talent I’ll ever have in life is being disturbingly under talented. When God was handing out talents on the 8th day, I was doing tequila shots with Gabriel and Rafael. For years I stressed about never having a thing, but I can honestly say that my thing is, not having a thing. Or being bad at all the things. Take your pick. Not only am I just generally not great at most things, I’m terrible at sticking with things (if you’re a common reader you’ll most likely be familiar with my wishy washy personality) and get frustrated and rage quit when I don’t master something right away. (We’ve been over this in another blog post). I’ve never stuck with something long enough to consider myself a master, unless being a terrible person qualifies as a talent. ALAS! See below a not-at-all-comprehensive list of things that I will probably never be good at.
My entire life in one GIF
Games that involve any kind of strategy. When I play Catan with my boyfriend and his best friend, I experience a rage in my inner being that I can’t quite capture in ANY other scenario. It’s mostly because my boyfriend is a fuckin’ ruthless savage and doesn’t show me any mercy, despite my begging. He wins, every time, and I make no attempt at being better or learning a different strategy because I’ve resigned my fate to him winning, every. Single. Time. Same thing happens with any game. Risk, Monopoly, Ticket to Ride and even World of Warcraft.
Being in social situations that make me uncomfortable. I’ve always admired people that seem to rise above awkward situations and use a combination of their charm and hilarity to get them through that painful conversation with Sharon who has admitted to having a problem eating cardboard. I seem to lack that ability. Usually if I’m in an uncomfortable social scenario my eyes fog over with a lens of extreme discomfort/i-don’t-know-how-to-react-to-you-having-cancer kind of feeling. I stand in a frozen stance for the duration of the conversation and slowly try to suck my own face into itself to try and escape this awful trip I’ve apparently fallen into. (Get me two glasses of wine and this entire scenario changes. Chardonnay? More like Chardon-YAY!)
Sports. God DAMN I hate sports. I remember as a child my grandfather thought that part of being a good person was being involved in some kind of sport. So he put me in every sport you could name, including golf. Fuck I hate golf. One time I went to a driving range without a glove and developed a blister the side of Adam Sandler’s nose so I threw my club across the green and rage quit, forever. I feel like some people are just made for sports and I’m just not one of those people. Whenever I run for more than 20 seconds without my lungs collapsing I’m suddenly alarmingly aware of how much effort it takes to carry my entire middle area. So much so, it almost has it’s own gravitational pull. Awful. If I have to tensor bandage my tits just so I’m not uncomfortable during physical activity, like I’m NOT fucking into it.
Not being way too sensitive. I’m pissed about how I have too many feelings. Like FUCK feelings. Everything someone says to me affects me. (When it comes from people I care about, lez be real Karen.) Some kind of off the cuff side comment about how my ears are shaped funny? I’ll never be without a toque ever again. My boyfriend makes a joke about how I have issues? I’m running around in a fit of anxiety for the next three days, sure he’s going to leave me. All the other adults in my life got the emotional maturity, I got the capabilities of a 2 year old that is trying to understand the concept of sharing for the first time ever. Whats worse is I actually indulge my feelings and try to amplify them by like, watching movies or listening to Coldplay’s Viva la Vida on repeat. What in the actual fuck?
Half the time I have mental breakdowns, I’m in my car and it’s usually raining.
And lastly (for this list, God you know I’m horrible and it’s really never ending), taking care of a vehicle. I’m pretty sure right now my car is like 10,000 km’s over the oil change date. Every time I take it into a mechanic I get the same lecture and piercing judgment when I take my sorry ass into the doctor. It’s not completely falling apart it still works right? What’s a wheel alignment? Sounds important, but also sounds expensive. Now that I have an actually useful boyfriend, it’ll probably get taken care of better than if it was ever solely in my hands, but I still blow at it. As long as it gets me from point A to point B without every single wheel flying off, I’m good.