Two or three times a day, for 20 minutes or so, I escape the confines of my home office and work on my jump-shot. I try to get 50 shots in before my creaky knees collapse, or the ball deflects to some weird part of a neighbouring property that I’m temporarily too embarrassed to retrieve (this happens a lot, and I’m an adult, so it’s really weird).
I do this in spite of the fact that by all means, my window into athletic superstardom has been closed for some time, (side note: can a door that was never open technically be closed, or is that just a wall with a non-functioning door knob on it?) I still place a great deal of importance on getting away from the more self-actualized version of myself. The one with the insatiable fickleness in spite of having a pretty great life.
It’s nice to be bad at something. Or perhaps, to be bad at something and be totally ok with it, knowing that you’re just doing the thing that makes you happy, and who cares if that weird neighbor kid feels the need to weigh-in on the subject (I hope you’re reading this weird neighbor kid!).
It’s a wake-up call. Like when you get to the point in your life where you’re so criminally competent, or adequate, or ok(!) with your work, or yourself, or your relationships that you grow ever-consumed by the dread of failure. So you shut-off and stop applying yourself, or going on adventures, or smelling flowers, or taking awful 17-foot jump shots because you’re good at exactly what you know, and the speck of light that broke through that sealed door-frame (or wall with a non-fucntiong door knob) is growing increasinlgy distant.
Today, go be awful at something.