Sunday Scribblings: Bragging

To begin...

House projects. Putting up drywall. Plumbing. Carpentry of any kind. Laying carpet. Anything associated with electricity. Installations and removals. I'm terrible at all these things. Can barely wield a hammer properly without hurting myself, someone else, or one of the aforementioned housing projects. I can be convinced I've found a stud and then have the shelf I've erected from the ashes of oblivion fall right back to its former state. We tried to overhaul the kitchen in our home; we succeeded in destroying a few things. And then we succeeded at picking up the phone and calling someone who could help. Terrible!

In the process of bragging, I promise.

My memory. Lacking, to say the least. I can barely remember what I did yesterday. What I accomplished. What I ate for lunch. What I wore. It all flitters into the silence of the stars' hazy light.

I can barely sing one octave. My voice cracks on the high end. And it rasps into obscurity on the low.

I think I'm right most of the time. Obnoxiously so.

And speaking of being obnoxious, I'm one of those who corrects grammar. A grammar elitist, you might say. 'It's not between you and I, it's between you and me,' I expound confidently. And it's 'to whom should I send the letter, not to who'. 'I spoke slow? No, I spoke slowly.'

I am afraid. Everything, it seems, proves an obstacle that I hesitate to pass. I would both love and hate to pack myself into a small room full of books and never talk to anyone again.

I have bragging rights to all of the above. Not monopolized by any stretch, I know. But rights nonetheless. Why, you ask?

Because I know all of these things about myself. And in knowing, I do something about each one. I may not always succeed, but I succeed a hell of a lot more times than I fail because I deny denial.