8 simple things I suck at

Dissenters may exist, but I generally believe myself to be of reasonable competence and fair to middling intelligence. To earn my keep, I’ve engaged in everything from shoveling pig shit to dispensing legal advice. They’re similar, yes, except 1) the work environment is generally more pleasant in a barn full of hogs, and 2) a good hot shower can rinse off most of the stink. But I digress. The point is, I’ve managed to acquire a relatively wide range of life experiences over the past half century or so and these varied experiences generally serve me well in navigating simple day-to-day challenges. While I don’t claim to be MacGyver, give me enough baling wire and duct tape and I can get shit done.

Nonetheless, certain life challenges remain beyond my reach, even if most folks seem to grasp them with little or no effort. Perhaps for the same reason that I count steps whenever I ascend or descend flights of stairs or record when, where, and how many miles I run annually, I am compelled to track simple things that I suck at. Here is my current catalog of those things:

1.     Using “begs the question” in proper context.  The best I’ve been able to muster is that the phrase “begs the question” is not the same as “raises the question.” And I hate/want to be one of those pretentious jack-ass pedants who can’t resist playing the “well, actually . . .” card whenever someone not steeped in the arcane arts of philosophy and logic misuse the phrase. A free Straight Outta Boise T-shirt to anyone who can explain this to me in 50 words or less.* 

2.     Understanding “offside” rule in soccer.  I never played soccer but have watched my daughters play the game a hundred times. Probably more. Gradually, over the years, I’ve come to understand that the game is much more than running in a pack while chase a ball. There are different position! Players have different roles! They run plays! Also, there are rules. I’m still working on those. I understand that depending on who touches the ball before it goes out of bounds, it may be a corner kick or a goal kick. Is that right? I think that’s right. But the “offside” rule continues to baffle. It has something to do with the offensive player receiving the ball behind the deepest defender? All I know is that when a whistle blows and I don’t know why, and another parent asks what happened, I say: “Looks like it was offside.”

3.     Using electric power drill screwdriver function.  More specifically, how to use my electric power drill as a screwdriver without stripping the shit out of screw heads? Because I strip the shit out of screw heads. Every. Damn. Time.

4.     Cooking easy-to-peel hard-boiled eggs.  Hard-boiled eggs are good AND good for you. But I don’t always have 15 minutes to pick crushed shards of calcium carbonate crystals off my morning protein source. Please understand that I have studied ancient texts and modern food science for the fool-proof method to preparing HBEs so that the bond between shell and egg magically dissipates when gently pinched by forefinger and thumb. But my HBEs still shatter and splinter into an intricate mosaic of itty-bitty, crystalline pieces resembling a puzzle-map of gerrymandered Maryland congressional districts. I’ve tried adding salt to the water. Vinegar. Boiling longer. Boiling less. Cooling on ice. Leaving in pan longer. Nope, nope, and nope. Still need extra-long fingernails or tweezers to peel my HBEs.

5.     Signing special occasion cards at office.  Or writing a note in any type of card of congratulation or condolence, to be honest. Folks don’t fully appreciate how difficult it is to attempt earnestness or sincerity when your life is built on a foundation of sarcasm and irony. If I write something nice, will recipients assume I mean the opposite? Will “Have a Happy Retirement and thank you for all you have done for the office Kathy” cause Kathy to roll her eyes, stick a finger in her mouth and pretend-gag? Probably. But what if I stay true to myself and write “Hey Kathy now you have more time to get drunk and post racist memes on facebook!!” as an inside joke because Kathy and I often, in private, mock our colleague Roger whose late night social media habits have a certain vibe to them? What if Kathy doesn’t pick up on the joke? Or what if Roger does?

6.     Spinning basketball on fingertip.  I can curl my tongue into a taco. Wiggle my ears. Raise one eyebrow. Do the split-fingered live-long-and-prosper Vulcan salute. Pat my head and rub my belly (and vice versa). I’ve wasted hours over the course of a lifetime attempting unsuccessfully to spin a basketball on my fingertips.

7.     Correlating names with faces of daughter’s friends.  Maybe it’s a vowel thing, or a too-much-Irish-whiskey thing, or simply a getting-too-old thing, but I struggle to connect names with faces of my 10-year-old daughter’s friends. One would assume that when you see the same kids and hear the same name repeatedly, an association would form. In my case, one would assume wrong. These girls play soccer and basketball with my daughter, I see them at my house, at the neighborhood pool, at the bus stop, hear them discussed in terms of playdate demands or schoolyard drama. But I can’t make the name-face connection. I like to think it’s the vowel thing and that whiskey and age are non-factors. Think about it. Every single fourth grade girl in my daughter’s school have name that begin and end with vowels. It at least feels like every single one. Elisa, Aliza, Anya, Ava, Eva, Elaina, three Olivias – there are probably more but I can feel a manic attack coming on so I have to stop thinking. I don’t have boys but I image that if I did I would have similar struggles with the Ians, Ethans, Elis, Aidens, Alexes, and Olivers that populate the fourth grade in our leafy mid-Atlantic suburban school system. What’s with all the vowel names? A slightly off-topic/not-off-topic thing by Drew Magary (another Bethesda dad!), in GQ magazine: Why are my fellow whites still so awful at naming babies?

8.     Avoiding awkward texting.  I communicate almost exclusively by text messaging these days – phone calls and email are tedious and inefficient, a position I share with the millennial in your life. So you’d assume I’d be good at texting. Once again, you would assume wrong. I am not good at texting. I’m not talking about embarrassing auto-corrects and thumb-induced typos, of which I am often guilt. I’m talking about my habit of responding to text messages without confirming that when I hit “send” my message is on the right thread and going to the right audience. I’ve sent political rants to parents in the soccer carpool text group. I’ve awaken in a Sacramento hotel room while traveling for work and texted, instead of Carissa, my wife, a group of buddies planning an upcoming backpacking trip to announce that I’d enjoyed a great night’s sleep and that I loved and missed them. Likewise, I’ve texted a client, a former college football offensive lineman and PhD fisheries biologist, a quick “I love you” message. Sorry John, that was a mistake. I like you, but professional standards demand that we maintain appropriate boundaries.

---

This list could be much longer. I am a work in progress. Or maybe a work in decline? Oh God. Maybe I’m regressing! But it’s good, I think, to be honest with ourselves from time to time and call out by name those things that make us human. Consider this a small effort to remind myself of my own humility. And that I should search for a YouTube video on how to spin a basketball on my fingertip.


*If we ever print up any Straight Outta Boise T-shirts and if I remember. No purchase necessary. Void where prohibited. Employees or family of Straight Outta Boise not eligible.