The Parable of Terrible

Truth be told, I cannot take credit for the above title. That would be my wittier husband who can coax a colloquialism out of our dog if he wanted to. But, the idea of terrible came to me yesterday while I was driving...

I am an expert, an expert of the most elite kind, that's really, really good at making themselves look cool, calm, grounded and entirely capable, aka A Perfectionist. We all have her in there somewhere, but some of us seem to lean on the back of the Perfectionist with a little more weight. Maybe it's family-of-origin shit, or environment or just the way God made me, but it's there.

When confronted with something new, I balk. I need lots, and lots of time to mull it over because I can't possibly drop the shroud of knowing what I'm doing, where I'm going, and actually express the vulnerability of NOT knowing what the hell I'm doing. No. That would make me look stupid.

And these are the sorts of narratives that have played quite a compelling and catchy tune in my brain for about 35 years. Almost 36. 

I realize, when I read it back, or say it out loud, that it's crazy talk. I would never say that or think that about someone else doing something new or unknown. In fact, I'd actually harbor a good bit of envy that they actually had the balls to try something new, or be vulnerable and risk looking, well, terrible at something. And there's a difference between being terrible, and being terrible at something...at least in my book. And perhaps I'll continue hashing out the semantics on it later, but for today, terrible is working. 

Over the years, I have begun to acknowledge the shit monger that I am. Particularly, when it comes to trying on new things. All the crazy narratives start doing their bizarre interpretive dances to the Stupid tune, and I somehow convince myself out of looking weird, silly, bad or like I'm a beginner, and don't try things. Yes, a beginner is like the scariest thing, EVER. But, I want to try new things. I want to feel the joy and fun and liveliness of vulnerability, because as I've learned for myself, I feel most alive when I'm out on the edge of things. 

So, what better way to jump in than with a hip hop cardio class at the local dance studio?!

When a co-worker posted a recent video of taking a hip hop class, I immediately commented at how FUN it looked. In my head, I thought, 'That's enough,' as if commenting on something looking fun somehow translated to experiencing fun. It doesn't. So, he ever-so-politely, dropped the invitation bomb. The ball's now in my court. I can continue to be a polite bystander, or join in.

These choices are cornerstones. They mark my ability to be vulnerable, and switch the Stupid tune that's been on repeat in my brain, to Courage, which, in my head, is The Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony".

When he said, "Come join the fun," I thought 'Yes,' but felt the Stupid tune crank up. Friday rolled around last week, and I had a friendly message asking if I was going to join them, but I couldn't. When plans came up this Friday, I knew that it meant I couldn't go. Part of me was relieved. No threat of being exposed as a total novice. 

But, when my plans fell through, I was immediately faced with the choice again: to be brave, or keep wishing I was brave. I chose the former. Cool. Signs of maturity.

Of course, I didn't want to go at my bravery alone. I have never even taken a dance class, let alone a hip hop class. I asked a couple friends, even my mom, knowing that attempts were likely futile. And I was right. So, I was faced with a second choice: to be brave alone, or keep wishing I was brave. I feel like you may be thinking, 'What's the big deal,' but for me, it was a really big deal. I chose to walk into a dance class, by myself, with zero previous dance experience (besides my younger days at a brit-pop club in LA) and be terrible at it. And, I was terrible, at the dancing. I totally crushed the whole courage thing.

Stepping into that class, I sacrificed my pride on the altar of fun. I didn't walk in there pretending to know what I was doing. How could you even fake that? I was one of maybe 40 people, near the back corner, shaking my ass and having a blast. That room was a microcosm of what I picture Utopia like: every color, size, age and ability enjoying life, cheering each other on. It was a gentle reminder that the Kingdom of God is actually here on Earth. 

I plopped down into my car, with the pulse of courage rushing through me, and reveled in the fact that I was terrible at hip hop. Yep, I was proud of being terrible because being terrible at it meant that I at least tried...and I'd rather say I tried than that I didn't try at all. The Parable of Terrible.

If you are a serial perfectionist like myself, I invite you to join me Friday mornings and throw caution to the wind (I know, that's like the scariest thing ever), and be that person that you always look at and think, 'Dang, I wish I was as brave as them.' I invite you to embrace the inner klutz, the critic, the fallible, and give them all a big middle finger as you take the power back with one quick twerk to 2Pac. After all, you may be terrible at it, but you sure as hell are brave.