The Guitar That Judges Me
There’s this guitar leaning against my bedroom wall that I swear has developed a personality. Not in a whimsical, talking-furniture kind of way, but in the very real sense that it radiates disappointment every time I walk past it. I bought it six months ago with the kind of enthusiasm that only strikes at 2 AM while watching YouTube videos of people who make fingerpicking look like breathing.
The thing is, I’ve been learning guitar the way most people learn to procrastinate, with dedication, consistency, and absolutely no measurable progress. My fingers still fumble over the fret board like they’re wearing mittens. The calluses I was promised would make everything easier? They showed up, sure, but apparently they’re just for show. Meanwhile, my muscle memory has decided that every chord should sound like I’m strangling a very small, very angry cat.
But here’s what I’ve noticed: I keep going back to it. Not because I’m getting better, I’m demonstrably not, but because there’s something weirdly satisfying about the whole enterprise of failing at something so completely. It’s like my brain has found a new hobby in cataloging all the ways six strings can conspire against me.
The Language App That Lies
My phone cheerfully informs me that I’ve maintained a 47-day streak in Italian. This feels like being congratulated for showing up to the gym and immediately leaving, which, coincidentally, is another thing I’m learning badly. The app seems convinced that if I can say “The turtle eats the apple” with enough confidence, fluency will naturally follow.
I’ve learned that “il gatto” means “the cat” approximately 847 times, and yet yesterday I confidently told my Italian coworker that I had a beautiful cat in my refrigerator. She was polite about it, which somehow made it worse. There’s a special kind of humility that comes from realizing your brain has filed “frigorifero” under “things that definitely mean garden.”
The weird part isn’t that I’m bad at languages, I suspected that going in. It’s that I’ve become fascinated by the specific ways I’m bad at them. My brain has apparently decided that verb conjugation is optional and that adding “o” to the end of any English word creates instant Italian. This strategy has not proven effective, but it has proven consistent.
The Sourdough That Became Sentient
Three weeks ago, I named my sourdough starter Margaret. This seemed reasonable at the time, the kind of thing serious bakers probably do. Margaret lives in my refrigerator now, and I feed her every few days with the kind of nervous attention you’d give to a temperamental houseplant that might be plotting something.
The internet promised me that sourdough was ancient, simple, foolproof. What they didn’t mention is that it’s also deeply personal, like raising a pet that you’re eventually going to eat. Margaret has moods. Some days she’s bubbly and optimistic, doubling in size with enthusiastic fermentation. Other days she sits there like a disappointing puddle, refusing to do anything except smell vaguely like old socks.
I’ve made exactly one successful loaf so far, and I’m not entirely sure how it happened. The rest have ranged from “aggressively mediocre” to “dense enough to use as construction material.” But Margaret keeps bubbling along, apparently more committed to this relationship than I am. There’s something both humbling and oddly touching about a living thing that depends on you for survival while you’re clearly winging it.
The Dance Class That Revealed My Coordination
Swing dancing, it turns out, requires several skills I don’t possess: rhythm, spatial awareness, and the ability to count to eight consistently. I signed up because it seemed romantic in that old-movie kind of way, where people glide effortlessly across ballroom floors while witty banter flows like champagne.
Reality has been different. I spend most of each class apologizing to my dance partners while trying to figure out which foot goes where and when. The instructor keeps saying things like “feel the music” and “let your body respond naturally,” which would be helpful if my body’s natural response to music wasn’t to stand very still and nod awkwardly.
Last week, during a particularly optimistic moment, I attempted something the instructor called a “simple underarm turn.” My partner ended up twisted like a pretzel, and I somehow managed to step on both of my own feet. The instructor smiled the kind of smile teachers perfect for encouraging the hopelessly lost. But here’s the thing: everyone else in that room has also stepped on someone’s feet. We’re all just people in a community center gym, trying to move to music without causing injury.
The Weird Comfort of Incompetence
There’s something liberating about being genuinely, consistently bad at things you’ve chosen to be bad at. Not work things or important life skills, but these voluntary incompetencies that exist purely because you decided they should. My guitar doesn’t care that I can’t play “Wonderwall.” Margaret the sourdough starter isn’t keeping score of failed loaves.
I think I’m learning that learning badly might be its own skill. It requires a kind of persistent optimism that borders on delusion, the belief that next time will be different, even when all evidence suggests otherwise. It’s like being your own personal research project in the limits of human stubbornness.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the point isn’t to get good at things, but to keep showing up anyway, collecting small disasters like interesting rocks. What are you learning badly these days? I’d love to know I’m not the only one out here failing with such dedication.