One week into summer, and I feel I’ve already failed one of my post-grad goals: my personal Friday column.
The idea: an disciplined attempt at well-crafted opining.
However that is not what this is. We’ll blame this week’s long list of errands (dermatologist, DMV), coupled with the week’s early hi-jacking from the stomach flu.
But this week I’ll start with paltry attempt at something I learned today. At a local magazine, touring the facility and glancing over their color-filled offices, over boxes of shoes and clothes and crafts for future photo sessions, I discovered that I’m doing the wrong thing. In trying to do sports, I’m proving myself wrong over and over again. Within five seconds, I unraveled a year of work to discover that I’m literally in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As much as I hate admitting this – I want to delete it and believe it’s not true – my year plus spent feigning a knack for sports has only taught me that sports isn’t for me. It doesn’t make me tick.