Sometimes It Feels Good to Be Bad at Something

Failure is an Option

*Here’s something new I’m trying: Recording audio of my stories for those who’d rather listen than read. Let me know what you think…

Here are a few things I’m good at: solving other people’s problems, being a friend, making salads, identifying smells, losing sunglasses, Wordle, tripping and falling,¹ collecting stray animals, and finding other people’s lost things.

Here are a few things I am decidedly not good at: speaking French, watercolor painting, Pilates, meditating, taking risks, keeping a journal, and math. With the exception of math, which I avoid like my creepy close-talking neighbor, I do all of these things anyway.

There are way more things I’m not good at. In fact, the list of things I suck at could unfurl like a toilet paper roll at the mercy of my cat. Isn’t that great though? Because the list of possibilities for what I might learn or become is almost endless.

While youth can often be characterized by bravado, ego, and insecurity, I’ve found aging to be an invitation to openness, wonder, and more, more, more. More to do, more to learn, more to be as time becomes less.²

The older I get, the less I know. The more I realize how vastly small my knowledge is, the more comfortable I get with being a novice. In fact, rather than the world narrowing as I get older, it seems to be expanding, stretching like a bright, shiny balloon about to burst.³

There’s beauty and freedom in being a beginner. Especially learning something new for the sake of learning something new.

Figuring out how to replace the toilet flapper because you don’t want to pay a plumber $250 to do something you can learn yourself on YouTube is not the same as finally learning how to knit because it’s something you’ve always wanted to try. (Don’t get me wrong though. I am thankful my husband did the former.)

I’m on day 1200-something of attempting to learn French on Duolingo. I could be on day 5099 and I’d still be a beginner. I’ve definitely made progress. I know a lot of words, can ask where the bathroom is, and say things like, “I’m tired” or “My shoes are blue.” But even Lily, the bitchy cartoon Duolingo character, rolls her eyes when I am attempting to video chat with her.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get French grammar right, my pronunciation is crap, and how the hell are you supposed to figure out what’s feminine and what’s masculine? Still I persevere. I do a lesson or two per day and light up like an overdecorated Christmas tree when I actually understand something conversational.

Last year when we visited France, I even had several people assume I was French just from my “bonjour.” Of course as soon as they started rapid fire speaking their native tongue to me, I turned into the actual human version of Homer Simpson’s “Doh.”

I choose to keep going though, because practicing my beyond rudimentary French is good for my brain, feels way more productive than scrolling or streaming, and makes me feel ever so slightly sophisticated. Plus, it’s fun. Mostly because it’s fun.

Also fun is my new hobby of watercolor painting. I have no natural art skills and no training beyond the arts and crafts of grade school, but I love playing with color and creativity. There’s something about turning a blank piece of paper into a kaleidoscope of my own making that is both meditative and energizing. Time seems to melt away when I’m concentrating on my “art.”

Will I ever actually be good at painting? Probably not. Could this turn into a money making avenue? Not a chance. Do I care? I do not.

I am painting for pleasure. Not for output or outcome or anything else other than the simple joy of doing it. Same goes for singing. My singing is akin to Kim Kardashian’s acting. In other words, I have no talent. But alone in the car, I belt it out. I’ll never be skilled at singing, but it’s soul satisfying anyway.

I’ve been practicing classical Pilates for almost two years, and I am still very much a novice. Yes, I’ve grown stronger and more knowledgable since I started, but it will be a long time—and possibly never—before I become an advanced student.

Admittedly, Pilates is the one area where I do experience a little bit of an internal tug of war between my beginner status and my desire to master it. This can be traced back to my life as a dancer where the default setting is pushing yourself to get better and better. To be the best.

As a young dance student, my chest would thump with percussive frustration when I couldn’t get something right away. The tension in my body would then be counterproductive to whatever I was trying to learn. It sometimes held me back, because I often avoided attempting things I assumed I wouldn’t be good at.

With Pilates, I remind myself to focus on progress rather than perfection and to celebrate the growth I’ve already accomplished. I’m actually grateful to be a beginner, because a few years ago, after a hip replacement, a knee replacement, a hysterectomy, and menopause back to back to back, I wasn’t sure if I would even be able to find a physical practice that would work for my broken body. So being a beginner is way better than being a non-starter.

The older I get, the less afraid I am to color outside the lines of my comfort zone. I’ve discovered the joy of trying new things, knowing I probably won’t be good at them but that they could be good for me.

Something else I’ve learned? Sometimes failure is not only an option but an inspiration.

1. For more about this gift of mine, read this:

I’ve Fallen & I Can Get Up

2. Another piece about this time of life:

Giving Birth During Menopause

3. And one more…

The Closer We Get to the Ending, The More It Feels Like Beginning