I Can't Do the Things Normal People Do
I think I was born missing a gene.
Some crucial gene that nearly every other man or woman has allowing him or her to use their hands deftly and with ease. For them, home improvement projects aren't to be dreaded. For them, something vaguely mechanical isn't an act of courage. The connection between their heads and their extremities is very present, very active.
I don't know what you'd call this, but to a certain degree it's impaired me from feeling like a "normal person." I can't seemingly perform any task (minus the mundane and the intellectual) without screwing it up. I guess the short story is, besides typing: I have no motor skills.
As an adult, I've done my best to avoid situations I'm no good at. I don't buy many things that require manual assembly, for starters. Even if the instructions were the most vividly detailed instructions ever created, I would still somehow screw up the project at hand. Even if there were two steps, when I finished it'd look like a pile of sticks. Even if no sticks were involved.
When I was a child, I grew to hate those types of purchases my parents made. If I tried to help at all, I inevitably got screamed at. Always. Sometimes the screaming was self-esteem crushing. I'm sure they didn't mean it like that, but that's how I heard their words and interpreted their exasperated attitudes. It got to the point when, if I got a gift at Christmas or my birthday that would require being built, my joy would turn instantly to dread. I could mask it, but I was secretly thinking-
"Oh fuck."
I've carefully cut these events out of my life, in the interest of my confidence and self-preservation. And a simple acknowledgement: I'm no good at them. I tried improving and learning, but it's hopeless. It's always been hopeless.
It's not just relegated to the mechanical realm, either. It's a miracle I ever learned to play an instrument; sports, where coordination and athletic ability determine good graces, were a failure (I used to blame it on being so out-of-shape, but even when I got in shape- and right now I'm guess I'm not as good as I could be but no where as bad as I've been- they were still beyond me). Art, even though I enjoy it, is something I can barely do. I doodle, and never attempt much more than the occasional drawing because I can still hear comments in the back of my memory.
Besides my parents, school was instrumental in making me feel inferior in these areas. I can't tell you how many teachers (mind you, in my core classes I was a fine A/B student) lost their cool with me growing up. It makes me wonder why some people even become teachers in the first place, but okay.
I will illustrate: I nearly failed tech ed (or wood shop, the more antiquated term). It's one of the few classes in which I nearly failed. I would stay after school to work on my projects with other kids (a ragtag group of us) because I wanted at least a B. But I was staining my hands and getting frustrated because nothing- not even my best efforts- was good enough.
Our big assignment was to make a clock. My brother had made a clock, three years earlier. My parents put it in our small dining room. It looked immaculate in my eyes, a real piece of craftsmanship. Then, there was mine. My parents put it next to his. The differences in the two were like comparing a BMW to a jalopy bought from hillbillies on Craigslist. I think they got rid of it, eventually. Good riddance.
The whole magnitude of my cluelessness and ineptitude has had quite the effect on my confidence. I wondered if (for a while) I had a secret handicap that no one ever diagnosed. Perhap a touch of a developmental disorder? My mom even theorized my shortcomings on an inner ear problem (which would explain the balance problems).
Nah; I'm just a clutz.
Recently, I moved. I am 25 years old and I've gone on to do things with myself- for someone who could never:
a.) make anything
b.) create any arts-and-crafts project
c.) be good at any sport whatsoever
d.) do a push-up because apparently I can't bend my elbows well (I actually was dragged in front of a gym class to demonstrate this once)
e.) write legibly (day in and day out I am reminded of this)
This could be an accomplishment.
However, with moving comes manual labor and...making things. My girlfriend is really patient with me, something I'm INCREDIBLY grateful for. She puts up with my bumbling antics, time and time again. She, unlike me, can...do things normal people can do, and she does them rather well. I'm always impressed (and a little in awe). We spent the day lugging boxes back and forth by ourselves. Loading and unloading. Driving a tank of a U-Haul. Naturally we both got irritable.
We have a bed now, purchased from the Swedish domestic utopia IKEA. I love IKEA because I love Sweden. If I didn't love Sweden, I may not love IKEA. I tell you, even though I can suppress it, I feel a whiff of discomfort when I enter those "Hej!" doors. Mostly because I feel like the world of home improvement and decor is just a world I do not belong to. I want to belong- and I'm doing my best to- but I don't know if it's something I'll ever take to as gracefully as my girlfriend, or my mom, or any other middle-class American citizen who uses Pinterest (albeit "middle class" is pushing it). (But this all being said I do love me some IKEA, especially the things that require no assembly. I do not love those creepy stuffed hearts with arms they have!)
She put the bed together and I was helpless, spastic and mortified. I ended up spilling a cup of soda on the new carpet because I was so scared and my brain was short-circuiting. Then, I wanted to crawl into a tiny ball and fade into a black hole. I don't think I contributed anything to the bed-creation other than handing over parts. In retrospect, perhaps I could have been more assertive about the situation. She did a wonderful job with the bed (as she does).
However, this event brought to light a serious issue for me, when I was thinking about it (still mortified) days later. I can't hide from these things I cannot do or comprehend. I can only do my best with them and ask for help when I need it. Even if the average person would be bemused as to why I need help. And even if it my best looks like a sloth with narcolepsy's best.
Although I will always envy the mechanics, the dedicated fixer-uppers, the athletes, the artists, the people who can write legibly, everyone really, these people are not me. I am a writer and a good editor (by far not the best!), someone who is good at remembering trivia (but not much else), someone who types fast, can recommend people music they may have not heard (but not people who read Pitchfork) and someone who tries to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good girlfriend, a good sister and a good colleague (but who messes up a lot). I think these are all good things, and when I stop to reflect them - not the fact that I will never do something technical successfully - I do not feel my worth diminished, but heightened.
Some crucial gene that nearly every other man or woman has allowing him or her to use their hands deftly and with ease. For them, home improvement projects aren't to be dreaded. For them, something vaguely mechanical isn't an act of courage. The connection between their heads and their extremities is very present, very active.
I don't know what you'd call this, but to a certain degree it's impaired me from feeling like a "normal person." I can't seemingly perform any task (minus the mundane and the intellectual) without screwing it up. I guess the short story is, besides typing: I have no motor skills.
As an adult, I've done my best to avoid situations I'm no good at. I don't buy many things that require manual assembly, for starters. Even if the instructions were the most vividly detailed instructions ever created, I would still somehow screw up the project at hand. Even if there were two steps, when I finished it'd look like a pile of sticks. Even if no sticks were involved.
When I was a child, I grew to hate those types of purchases my parents made. If I tried to help at all, I inevitably got screamed at. Always. Sometimes the screaming was self-esteem crushing. I'm sure they didn't mean it like that, but that's how I heard their words and interpreted their exasperated attitudes. It got to the point when, if I got a gift at Christmas or my birthday that would require being built, my joy would turn instantly to dread. I could mask it, but I was secretly thinking-
"Oh fuck."
I've carefully cut these events out of my life, in the interest of my confidence and self-preservation. And a simple acknowledgement: I'm no good at them. I tried improving and learning, but it's hopeless. It's always been hopeless.
It's not just relegated to the mechanical realm, either. It's a miracle I ever learned to play an instrument; sports, where coordination and athletic ability determine good graces, were a failure (I used to blame it on being so out-of-shape, but even when I got in shape- and right now I'm guess I'm not as good as I could be but no where as bad as I've been- they were still beyond me). Art, even though I enjoy it, is something I can barely do. I doodle, and never attempt much more than the occasional drawing because I can still hear comments in the back of my memory.
Besides my parents, school was instrumental in making me feel inferior in these areas. I can't tell you how many teachers (mind you, in my core classes I was a fine A/B student) lost their cool with me growing up. It makes me wonder why some people even become teachers in the first place, but okay.
I will illustrate: I nearly failed tech ed (or wood shop, the more antiquated term). It's one of the few classes in which I nearly failed. I would stay after school to work on my projects with other kids (a ragtag group of us) because I wanted at least a B. But I was staining my hands and getting frustrated because nothing- not even my best efforts- was good enough.
Our big assignment was to make a clock. My brother had made a clock, three years earlier. My parents put it in our small dining room. It looked immaculate in my eyes, a real piece of craftsmanship. Then, there was mine. My parents put it next to his. The differences in the two were like comparing a BMW to a jalopy bought from hillbillies on Craigslist. I think they got rid of it, eventually. Good riddance.
The whole magnitude of my cluelessness and ineptitude has had quite the effect on my confidence. I wondered if (for a while) I had a secret handicap that no one ever diagnosed. Perhap a touch of a developmental disorder? My mom even theorized my shortcomings on an inner ear problem (which would explain the balance problems).
Nah; I'm just a clutz.
Recently, I moved. I am 25 years old and I've gone on to do things with myself- for someone who could never:
a.) make anything
b.) create any arts-and-crafts project
c.) be good at any sport whatsoever
d.) do a push-up because apparently I can't bend my elbows well (I actually was dragged in front of a gym class to demonstrate this once)
e.) write legibly (day in and day out I am reminded of this)
This could be an accomplishment.
However, with moving comes manual labor and...making things. My girlfriend is really patient with me, something I'm INCREDIBLY grateful for. She puts up with my bumbling antics, time and time again. She, unlike me, can...do things normal people can do, and she does them rather well. I'm always impressed (and a little in awe). We spent the day lugging boxes back and forth by ourselves. Loading and unloading. Driving a tank of a U-Haul. Naturally we both got irritable.
We have a bed now, purchased from the Swedish domestic utopia IKEA. I love IKEA because I love Sweden. If I didn't love Sweden, I may not love IKEA. I tell you, even though I can suppress it, I feel a whiff of discomfort when I enter those "Hej!" doors. Mostly because I feel like the world of home improvement and decor is just a world I do not belong to. I want to belong- and I'm doing my best to- but I don't know if it's something I'll ever take to as gracefully as my girlfriend, or my mom, or any other middle-class American citizen who uses Pinterest (albeit "middle class" is pushing it). (But this all being said I do love me some IKEA, especially the things that require no assembly. I do not love those creepy stuffed hearts with arms they have!)
She put the bed together and I was helpless, spastic and mortified. I ended up spilling a cup of soda on the new carpet because I was so scared and my brain was short-circuiting. Then, I wanted to crawl into a tiny ball and fade into a black hole. I don't think I contributed anything to the bed-creation other than handing over parts. In retrospect, perhaps I could have been more assertive about the situation. She did a wonderful job with the bed (as she does).
However, this event brought to light a serious issue for me, when I was thinking about it (still mortified) days later. I can't hide from these things I cannot do or comprehend. I can only do my best with them and ask for help when I need it. Even if the average person would be bemused as to why I need help. And even if it my best looks like a sloth with narcolepsy's best.
 |
| He's thinking, "but I can do better!" |
Although I will always envy the mechanics, the dedicated fixer-uppers, the athletes, the artists, the people who can write legibly, everyone really, these people are not me. I am a writer and a good editor (by far not the best!), someone who is good at remembering trivia (but not much else), someone who types fast, can recommend people music they may have not heard (but not people who read Pitchfork) and someone who tries to be a good daughter, a good friend, a good girlfriend, a good sister and a good colleague (but who messes up a lot). I think these are all good things, and when I stop to reflect them - not the fact that I will never do something technical successfully - I do not feel my worth diminished, but heightened.
It's these little things that remind me, despite of my inabilities and what I lack, half-assed clocks from seventh grade and all, I am a battle worth fighting for.
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