In All Uncertain Terms

You know how when you’re a kid, and it’s the beginning of the school year, your teacher wants to help everyone get to know each other, but time is limited, so she asks each student to share his name and one fun fact about himself? Depending on where you lie in the seating arrangement, your allotted time to prepare may range from 0.2 seconds to a few minutes. You sit there, frantically wracking your brain for something about you that is even remotely interesting, as student after student speaks, and your turn grows nearer and nearer. You are so desperate to muster up some weird, funny, unique, or cool tidbit about yourself that you don’t even pay attention to the names or fun facts of others, which was the whole point in the first place. Your turn arrives, and you spit out some half-baked attempt at proving that you are fascinating enough to be worth knowing. “My name is Sarah, and I have a parakeet named Dryer Lint” or whatever. Just like that, it’s over, and the next person is sharing their piece.

“At least when I’m a grown-up, I won’t have to do this anymore,” you think, anticipating when that day will come. How wrong you are! Little do you know that you will have to go through the same song and dance every time you start a new job, attend a book club, join the PTA, or virtually anything that involves becoming part of a group you weren’t in before. It would be much easier if the fun fact didn’t have to be about you. After all, the vast majority are not.

If you can’t relate to the above, I envy you. It must be nice to effortlessly conjure up a statement about yourself that will intrigue and delight–unless, of course, you simply don’t care enough, and your “fun fact” lacks in the fun department. If you are one of those people, know that my experience is not an uncommon one. I know because of the number of memes on the subject.

Some time ago, I came up with the solution to this problem. During one instance of being asked to share a fun fact about myself, by some divine blessing, I thought of something both true and notable enough to be somewhat interesting, but not too fun as to make myself seem a total weirdo: my Duolingo streak. At the time of writing this, it is 1,678 days. This became my go-to fun fact. It’s a small brag, because it is longer than 98% of active users, shows my dedication, and my love of learning. (Don’t ask me if I’m fluent in French yet; I’m not.) Gone were the days of anxiously wondering what to say. Gone were the days of trying to strike a delicate balance between too much and not enough. I could stride into any meeting confident, knowing I had a fun fact up my sleeve I could whip out at any moment if asked. No longer would I look like a fool, desperately hoping to have some stroke of inspiration and recollection to save me from failure to share one–just one–thing about me others might want to know. Oh, what a glorious day that was.

My church recently announced a get-together for all the women. I love the women in my church, so I was looking forward to it. I read the message with excitement, until–oh, no. We are each expected to bring an item for show and tell: an item we like or is meaningful, or that is representative of those things. My stomach began to knot. My brow furrowed. Dread hung over my head like a dark cloud. That could be almost anything! I don’t particularly like the toilet brush in our bathroom, but it does represent something I like: having a clean home. There are only a few things in our house that I don’t like and don’t represent something meaningful: the dead moth in the corner of our kitchen that I have yet to clean up, the Crown Royal Regal Apple whisky my husband received for his birthday, and the Cad Bane Funko Pop that sits atop our bookshelf, clashing with all other decor in the room.

So, having established only three items I can’t take with me to this gathering, the possibilities are nearly endless. The most obvious option is a book. At least, it would be if you stepped into my living room. Almost everyone has a favorite book, though, so that seems boring. Besides, I could easily talk about the meaning my favorite book has without having it in sight. If this is a show-and-tell, the show portion would be pretty unremarkable. I love projects, but I rarely finish them. Perhaps I should take our partially-stripped-and-sanded kitchen chair that has been a work-in-progress for over a year–to show how I don’t follow through, or if I do, it takes a billion years. My pride would prevent me from putting my failure on public display, though. I could take a finished project, the green velvet chair I reupholstered years ago. It would highlight my best features: my obvious talent and skill, my thriftiness and eco-friendliness (since I saved the chair from going into the garbage), and, of course, my wonderful taste for interior design. No, too impractical. Who wants to carry an entire upholstered chair into a social gathering? If I really wanted my item to showcase who I am, I’d take my social security card. Despite being married for over three years now, it still bears my maiden name. Over the course of my life, I have changed in many ways, but one thing has remained the same: I am a master of procrastination. I think you’re supposed to keep your social security card safe and secret, though. Ah, well.

In nearly every scenario where limitless options are given, I will almost inevitably come down with a severe case of choice paralysis. I haven’t yet found the cure for myself, but if they ever make a vaccine or pill for that kind of thing, I’ll be first in line to try it out. Maybe there’s some essential oil a middle-aged white woman swears by, and I can purchase it from the Young Living affiliate marketing link in her lifestyle blog. 😉 In the meantime, I’ll continue to stress and dread until this thing is over with. I’ve got a few weeks. I’ll think of something, probably two minutes before I walk out the door, or I’ll forget the thing entirely. Perhaps I’ll lie and say I forgot to get out of it, like a kid might lie about an upset stomach to avoid giving a speech, or an adult might fake a migraine to avoid seeing the in-laws.

I know lots of people wish they could rewind the clock and relive the “good old days” of childhood. I myself sometimes miss the imagination, determination, and creativity I had as a child. Well, now I am getting to relive my childhood. It’s just that the part I’m reliving is a part I was incredibly grateful to have outgrown. Oh, well. Maybe it’ll give me more empathy for the growing pains of my younger peers, as I experience them anew.