I Failed: White Girl with a Fat Ass

As a theater student in college, I constantly found myself in unique classes like Shakespeare voice. I mutilated the brilliant words of the immortal Bard every Tuesday and Thursday morning at 10 a.m. This memory was of our deeply intense teacher gathering his young students into a circle and explaining that in order to take on these profoundierrific words (he did not say profoundierrific obviously, no one “rrifics” everything the way I do) we had to give each other permission to fail. 

Then began a series of exercises where my classmates and I attempted bits of texts and scenes. To overcome any sense of perceived failure we’d throw our arms up into the air proclaiming to the heavens “I FAILED!” Celebrating this submission to inadequacy, our fellow thespians would throw their arms up in the air rallying supportive cries of “HE FAILED!” or in my case, “SHE FAILED!” or sometimes to improve solidarity among the group, “WE FAILED!” You may think that I am recalling this sense memory to pity you into donating to my Charity Badge, but while donations are appreciated, I actually enjoyed the welcome relief that this failure permission created. 

At my low points, which I am never at a loss for, I have often recalled this memory and to amuse myself wondered how it would play out in the real world. For instance, running late to work the other day I just missed the magic train. This is the L train that comes at approximately 8:17 every day and through some rift in the space-time continuum has plenty of room. And will even ride smoothly through to my stop without delay. You miss that train, the next one takes forever to come, is packed with deodorant-phobes, and hangs under the east river indefinitely while an anonymous stranger feels up your ass. Eager for the magic train, I raced down the steps and missing the last one wiped out on the platform. How awesome would it have been to be able to jump up and throw my subway-mucked arms into the air to proclaim, “I FAILED!” My cries answered by a multitude of hipster strap-hangers, who whipping off their iPods to rejoin the land of the living, would all shout, ”SHE FAILED!”

Cut to: The corner of the park that I walk by every morning which was the backdrop for the snotty, hysterical, overly dramatic moments that made up my last hour with my ex. As I fought to pull myself back from the utter humiliation of my heart falling out of my chest and splattering on a sidewalk in Central Park, what a relief it would have been for the homeless guy who had witnessed this display in its entirety (while actively picking his nose) to shout, “SHE FAILED!” I would have gladly taken the excuse to stop sniveling and roar back in return, “I FAILED!” Although looking back now, months later, I might be tempted to shout, “HE FAILED!”