Musings on Self Worth

At summer camp when I was ten, I won a lot of medals. It was a big deal at the time and all the girls used to keep track of how many we all had to see who was in the lead. A medal meant you were eligible for the grand prize at the end of the summer in whichever category you medaled in. Basically, if you were a decent canoe-er, you’d be recognized for your talent and then the best canoe-er at the end of the summer would win the final canoe-ing award. Simple.

So when I was young, these many medals implied that I was well-rounded, generally athletic, and could carry a tune. I was proud of my faux-gold prizes (completely oblivious to how ridiculous I looked with them all dangling around my puny neck) and felt a burst of pride when others commented on how many I earned over the course of camp.

At the end of each summer though, my medals never seemed to lead to anything more. After two consecutive years of above-average medaling, I failed to earn a single one of the coveted “best” trophies. I felt robbed.

Today, I feel like not much has changed. There are lots of things I enjoy. I like reading and baking and running. I love playing guitar and singing and writing. I’m well-rounded, sure, but I’m not spectacular at any of these things, and my hobbies are just small ways to pass the time.

Running, for example, is the perfect way to stay in shape, meet people, and make friends with those who share a similar interest. But, my snail-like pace and inability to actually make it up a hill force me to stick to my solitary running routine every morning. In addition, I don’t have any burning desire to run a marathon and races in general feel like an imposition with their early morning arrival times and other unfortunate characteristics (port-a-potties, lack of parking, crowds, etc). Real runners want to race. They want the challenge and the personal satisfaction. They want to share their passion with others. I just don’t have the drive.

Ditto with guitar. Sure, I can play some basic chords and write cheesy lyrics a-la-taylor swift, but I’ll never be good enough (nor would I want to practice enough) to try out my music at an open mic night. Or even play live for people at all. The thought terrifies me.

This concerns me because it makes me feel like everything I do is a waste. Like, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear, does it make a sound? If I’m good but not great at a bunch of things, are they even worthwhile talents to possess? 

Sometimes I wish I’d focused on one thing – dedicated myself to an interest or a hobby when I was younger and really just run with it – so that today, I’d have something to show for my effort. If I’m not the smartest, or the prettiest, or the funniest, I’d like to at least be awesome at something.

Or maybe I’m just still figuring out what I have to offer the world. I guess that’s allowed.

Apparently, I'm a Klutz in DC

In Chicago I liked to think of myself as a fairly high functioning individual. I cooked and cleaned (occasionally) and did laundry. I knew how to wash dishes without breaking them and I drove my car without crashing it.

Then. I came to DC and my life seemed to fall apart. I started stumbling down stairs, dropping cups, spilling food. I went to costco with my mom and tried to make myself useful by lifting boxes of food out of the shopping cart and into the trunk of her car. Of course, the box I grab has a broken bottom and food tumbles out in every direction forcing me onto all fours in the crazy costco parking lot on a Saturday morning. I scrambled around collecting oranges and water bottles, praying I wouldn't get run over by deranged soccer moms.

So, I realized the klutziness was a real problem and decided to go above and beyond in my attempts to remedy this. I started going to bed earlier, thinking that an extra hour of sleep might help me stay focused throughout the day. I started drinking out of my camelbak water bottle during all our family meals in order to avoid knocking over my glass into everyone's meal. I even surrendered my new cutco knife to my mother so I didn't slice off a finger while cutting up fruit in my new apartment. Yet, despite my preventative measures, I still managed to sprain my finger, burn macaroni and cheese, and ruin my parents new stove in a 30 minute period after work today.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Is it DC? Is it post-work exhaustion? Am I reverting to childish tendencies because I'm in my childhood home? Maybe once I'm all settled in my new apartment the klutziness will fade. I don't know though... thoughts?