On Being A Natural Born Quitter (Plus, One Time a Winner)
April 6, 2014
April 6, 2014
I’ve given up on a few things in my life. Hell, who hasn’t. Quitters live longer, is what I always say. I tend not to dwell on my uh, inadequacies, but lately I’ve been thinking about what I’ve dropped hobby/habit-wise versus what I’ve kept…and what I’ve succeeded at majorly makes up for not kegeling religiously.
Trying to Become Musically Inclined
Music, an addiction I gotta have. On a desert island I would be tormented without sweet, sweet tunes. I want to ingrain it into my veins and BE a song. I’m fascinated by the process and the people who can pick and warble and flail around the stage and get paid for it.
So every once in a while I get the inane notion that maybe, just maybe, a latent gift will rear its beautiful head when I pick up the right instrument. To this date I’ve had many loves…
Oh, goddamn it, Jules.
Trying to Hippie Up
One day I felt mighty and powerful and full of world-changery goodness after reading an article linking breast cancer to antiperspirant in deodorant and I thought, “Hey, why not switch it up?” and tra la la’d off to Sprouts to spend too much on a natural stick of aluminum-free pit stick.
Unfortunately, my sweat glands had other ideas in mind.
The relationship lasted about six months right around the time I was wrinkling my nose and wondering what smelled like dead goat rotting under the hellish sun. Man, I tried to San-Francisco-tough it-out. Lived in denial until finally I decided that hey, maybe I should go back to basics. Back to something stronger.
The lesson here is that deodorant with potentially deadly chemicals WORKS. Tom’s, If I could have used you, I would have. You made my underarms silky smooth. But I couldn’t hold out and instead bought a deodorant stick full of delicious, delicious aluminum and lo and behold I now smell like fuzzy navel.
Trying to Snowboard (AKA: any physical sport)
Now this is more self preservation than “giving up” but if you want to get all nitpicky, OK fine. I snowboarded once back when I was 19. First time off the ski lift I twisted my knee and had to be carried down the mountain on some sort of EMT snowmobile. You do not know humiliation until you’re passed by five-year-olds conquering the black diamond runs and doing triple axels and other shit like that when you’re lying mortified in the back of snowmobile weeping that you never should have left your dorm room.
But there is one thing I haven’t given up on…
The only hobby I’ve ever really loved, wanted to work at, and work at hard, is writing.
I’m not the best and I’m never done practicing, but as of this moment at three o’clock in the afternoon when Pluto still isn’t considered a planet, and Miley Cyrus gets another tattoo, I am a writer. I have a 90,000 word novel in a second draft. My day profession is now a full-fledged copywriter. This is not to brag, it is because I am proud. Working for a goal and then having it finally happen is a monstrous beast to grasp. It’s like whooaaa and blergh and herpdederp all at a WTF-once.
That other shit I gave up on is meaningless…but what I kept at isn’t. It’s learning how to laugh when you suck at something and frantically fist pumping when you find something you want to stick with.
Whether or not I actually publish a book, or anyone ever reads what I write (unless you’re a family member, then you’re just obligated so get ready), this is something I’m okay with. I finished my book. I wrote it because I loved it. And when I die, I will be proud to say, gnarled fingers clenched in victory, that I have had at least one passion in my life I have never given up on, unlike Magic Crystal Pepsi and bikini briefs.
You be proud too. Of whatever you have done that means something.
Maybe you had a baby, married the man of your dreams, got that job at that library, managed to cut back to a pack a day, keep that sobriety chip or avoided calling Suzy in accounting a cocksucker, whatever you have successfully tried for and accomplished, big or small, you should be happy and be proud and dance on graves.
I meant dance on tables. But graves…yeah, I’m sure someone somewhere would pay you to do that while they watch. And if that’s not a proud moment I don’t know what is.