We’re all bad at something.
For some of us, that’s no problem. We’re good at stuff, too. For example, I’m pretty good at Jeopardy. I mow a mean lawn. Sometimes I send my wife flowers that aren’t cheap, or free with reward points. I take fabulous pictures of my nefarious cats.
Every once in a while, I’ll drop a tweet that will really make you think.
But that’s about it. And tons more tasks frustrate me to no end, but at least I’m able to admit my failures. I’m terrible at saying hello. I can’t make eye contact. I rarely return phone calls. The next positive status update I leave on facebook will be my first. I can’t dance. I can’t talk. The only thing about me is the way I walk. I have a middling job and this blog is – let’s just say – less than successful.
We all have our weaknesses. Still, as awful as I am at so many things – I’m particularly pathetic at one holiday task. One silly little meaningless activity, that defines my holiday self-loathing, just as it defines my holiday perspective. And, in time with the season, Holy Jesus am I bad at:
Gift-wrapping.
It is a struggle. A monumental, Herculean task. And for me, a resulting, epic fail, like clockwork, each season.
Every year, during the holidays, my lovely wife hopes differently, however. It’s almost sweet, if not terrifying.
December will start winding down, the Mr. Faded Glory home all decorated, everything’s warm and cozy, tree pristine, lights sparkling. Everything seems like it’s done, and a night square in the Christmas countdown’s home stretch will suddenly turn up empty. What luck, because Ms. Faded Glory loves Christmas. Loves it.
So every year, one of these nameless Saturday nights will turn into gift-wrapping night. She gleefully looks forward to hit; secretly hoping I’ve hid in the shed for weeks on end, finally honing my wrapping technique. Someday, I’ll be competent, and we’ll trot out the boxes for nieces and nephews and coworkers and family (Well, not my colleagues and family.) The vision is clear: the two of us smiling, laughing, and relaxing, tying up impeccable gifts, singing along with Christmas carols, rejoicing in the self-congratulatory joy of giving. (Have I mentioned I’m good at being an asshole?)
Perhaps we’ll even enjoy a snifter of port or hot chocolate or whatever yuppies drink. The point is, the fire crackles, the cats purr, and we snuggle up in blankets, casually knotting ribbons and bows and admiring our crisp, clean, gift-wrapped handiwork. That’s the hope, each season.
Except … how do I put this? Shit ain’t like that.
Within five minutes of gift-wrapping, I’ve somehow managed to double-knot the wrong tag. Also, I’ve tagged the wrong gift. I shorted paper on the dinner set box. At least this DVD will be easy to wrap! Nope, those corners puff worse than Snoop.
After ten minutes, the wistful fantasy is a shattered pipe dream.
My incredulous wife first admonishes, then shouts, then yells. I just laugh stupidly. How did I staple my shirt to the table? She practically screams; wondering how I could possibly be so bad at this. HOW. And I don’t know. I only know that I was supposed to wrap this wine in a wine sack, and punched the bottle right through the bottom. As bad as Jack Del Rio is at coaching football, I’m worse at gift-wrapping.
What’s that? No, I have no idea how that tissue paper was crushed. I’m supposed to twist it? Like this? Oh, shit, I wrapped my own hand.
Hey, Franklin, get away from the ribbon. OW. I cut my finger on the packaging tape. My necktie is caught under this ribbon. I know, I know, WHAT AM I DOING WEARING A NECKTIE TO WRAP GIFTS! It’s insanity. I wrapped this cooler perfectly, except I put “This side up” pointing the wrong way, and the carefully-packed interior spilled inside the box. It clatters, though, so that’s exciting. Isn’t it?
By this time, she’s cracked open the bottle of wine I was supposed to wrap, and begun drinking away her sorrows. But the harangue continues. And I’m not complaining. No way. I deserve it.
In her corner, she’s wrapped something like four-hundred gifts, each more impeccable than its prior. Corners clean, folds tight, ribbons crisp, each bow curled insouciant with the blade of a scissor. It’s a cool trick, she runs the scissor blade down a ribbon and the thing curls like Goldilocks. I try to do it and I shave my thumb and impale the coffee table with the reckless metal.
So she yells. Not in anger, just sheer incredulity that I’m so, so very bad at gift-wrapping. And I don’t argue. I know I’m terrible. I planned my wife’s surprise gift with my office Secret Santa party last week just so I could use the same gift bag twice.
Later on, I stare at stupid scraps of paper and loose ribbons and unfurled rolls of cellophane. And I glumly nod during each lecture; staring stupidly at my mess, glaring at the wreckage. Don’t worry, my comic timing and sense of irony isn’t totally detached – I’m usually giggling like the village idiot, completely aware of my stupendous failure. Shit, I know I’m bad. But you let me try this!
(Isn’t that The Apprentice in a nutshell? “Mr. Trump, I know I am abysmally terrible at this ONE THING, but this project manager totally ASSIGNED ME TO THIS ONE THING I’M TERRIBLE AT!”)
And then, suddenly, the gift-wrapping saga is over. I’ve cleaned up my mess. Her gifts sparkle and beam, a cascade of shiny presents, proud, preening, each one a bride. And on the other side of the tree are my success stories – four gift bags, and a cardboard box with a post-it reading “to recipient.” Success!
Why do I bring this up? Because this is Christmas, a holiday bursting with emotions, foibles, glory and peril. But most of all, it’s a time to be us. A time to laugh. A time to admit our failures, and applaud others’ success. A time to laugh at ourselves, humbled yet proud (Self-congratulatory, right?), even if we’re bad at tons of shit. Because, hopefully, this is the one time we can retreat into our families, and friends, and be OK with who we are, what we’re bad at, how we’ve failed, and how we’ve succeeded. Either way, it’s not all bad. It never is. And often, we forget, that’s enough.