Sunday, 9 March 2014
Things that I am rubbish at
We live in a world where narcissism prevails. We'd never upload an Instagram selfie where we have uncombed eyebrows, an unruly barnet and a 'what-the-f*ck-am-I-doing-with-my-life' expression, we're encouraged, naturally of course, to exercise and promote the things that we're good at, and we often find it difficult or embarrassing to accept our shortcomings. I, however, entirely champion that it is essential to do so. Being crap is a side effect of being human, and being human is the most liberating and wonderful and terrible and hilarious experience that we shall ever encounter. We are perpetually fascinating creatures and we should take pleasure in exploring the colourful spectrum of our own existence. Preach it. Be rubbish at something, I dare you.
Here are some things that I am rubbish at.
Singing. I love to sing. I do it at every opportunity, which I perceive as pretty much every single moment of my life. You name it, I've got a song for it. Once upon a time, whilst getting a pizza out of the oven, I even sang 'crispy, everything about you so crispy', to the tune of Liberty X's 'just a little.' You're welcome. My life is a theatre of lyrical ingenuity. Unfortunately for those within a certain radius, such lyrical prowess is compromised by my atrocious singing voice. If you imagine the most hideous rendition of everything, my version is decidedly worse. I am the operatic lovechild of Justin Bieber and a cat in labour. In fact, one of my dearest chums once told me that they'd rather eat a spoonful of their own faeces than ever hear me sing again. I told her that everybody hurts, sometimes.
Lying. Honestly is undoubtedly the best policy. I've never really seen the point in telling massive porkies (who even brought pork into this?...Mmm, pork), but sometimes, it is inevitable that I will release my inner criminal and tell a little rascal white lie. Some people are brilliant at it. I am absolutely not one of those people. If I tell a friend that she looks 'ah-mazing in that dress', she instantly knows that she looks like a farm animal.
Being on time. I am an Olympic medallist in being late. Somehow, the perfectly adequate window of time that I have to get ready for something mysteriously flitters away from me. By this, I mean that I get distracted by my bed, or my furry son, or marmite toast, or The Jeremy Kyle show, or by doing an unplanned Macarena. Time-to-leave o'clock becomes half-naked-insane-fluster-shit-shit-shit o'clock. Tick tock. Bernard, get your watch out.
Brushing my hair. My hair tells a story. It tells a story that I slept in a bush, even though I didn't actually sleep in a bush. (Unless of course I'm taking a selfie, in which case my hair tells a different story. It tells a story that I slept with Charles Worthington, even though I didn't actually sleep with Charles Worthington.)
Waving. I don't know if it's because my hands are so small and podgy and pathetic, or simply because I've overthought the matter so much, but I am the world's worst waver. Seeing someone I know at distance always fills me with nauseating dread. What constitutes as a socially acceptable wave? Side to side? Up and down? A static palm? How high should I lift my arm? Life is full of mysteries.
Comforting crying people. I love those deep, poignant conversations during which somebody reveals a certain depth or layer that you'd never previously had the pleasure of seeing or knowing. I'm good at having emotional brain sex, at least, until somebody cries. What does one do? If I offer a sympathetic smile, I might look like I'm enjoying their pain. If I adopt my own sad expression, I may only fuel their weeping fire and turn us into a bundle of inconsolable chaos. If I do nothing, I'll look rude and uninterested. And my body, what do I do with its many limbs?! Do I lean in to deliver an awkward pat? Do I hug them? Do I rest my hand upon theirs? Why does doing that always make me feel like a pervert? Such situations thrust upon me an overwhelming degree of inner panic. Regrettably, inner panic makes me laugh, awkwardly, for a substantial period of time. I always end up looking like I'm laughing at the crying person, which is definitely the worst outcome for everybody involved.
Being sexy. I once got so nervous about talking to an attractive man at a bar (does anyone else struggle with so-attractive-that-I-turn-into-a-creep syndrome?), that the first question he asked me was whether I was having a hot flush. Similarly, whilst under the influence of far too much gin, I went wild and gave a guy I was dating what I assumed was a suggestive wink. He thought I had lime cordial in my eye.
Having a concise shower. I make the most definitive life decisions whilst massaging my foamy 'pits in the shower. Yes, I do. I've probably got to be somewhere to be in half an hour. I definitely won't be there in half an hour.
Using my telescope. I've always been insatiably curious about space, particularly the night sky. It's a mad, awesome scattering of stars and planets and darkness and the unknown and natural epic, and it absolutely blows my tiny mind every time I look at it. A couple of summers ago, I decided to go all out and invest in a telescope. Since having my telescope, I have seen the craters of the moon for a magical 10 seconds. The remaining hours have been spent gazing at the house guttering, endless tree branches, 44 take-offs from Gatwick, and at least two of my neighbours getting changed. I am astronomically useless.
Controlling laughter. Farewell, kind readers. I'm too busy ROFLing and LOLing and LMFAO. Chuckle, chuckle. Did somebody cry?
What are YOU rubbish at? Tweet me your thoughts: @kathyb5710