EPUB Ebooks: Free ebook sample of "30 Failures by Age 30" by Katharine Miller (powered by Smashwords)

Once upon a time, 30 was old. It was Grown Up. It was almost middle-aged. If you weren’t married by age 30, something was wrong with you. If you didn’t have children, something was wrong with you. If you weren’t settled down with life all figured out, you’d screwed up somewhere along the way. Or so it seemed.

Turning 30 isn’t as big a deal as it was once. Thirty-somethings can’t be old because then the forty-somethings have to admit that they’re old and the fifty-somethings must grapple with the possibility of being completely irrelevant. Many thirty-somethings I know aren’t married and haven’t had children. None of us seem to have life figured out.

Reaching any sort of milestone in life feels more important than it actually is. And so, in honour of my 30th birthday, I scribbled out a list of 30 things I’d failed to accomplish in this sizable chunk of life. The 30 Failures list is not one of light-hearted or thrill-seeking experiences, like kissing a foreign ambassador or bungee jumping. Every item on my list represents a path not taken and any one of these failures could have had a dramatic impact on the outcome of my life. This is what happens when you defy expectations. Whether by chance or by choice, by not doing these things, I became, and remain, a social misfit.

This is not 1,000 Things To Do Before You Die. This is not Eat, Pray, Love. The end of this book will not reveal some greater truth or meaning of life. Or maybe you can find it, if you dig deep enough into the subtext. But I make no promises. I can’t guarantee any heart-warming or feel-good moments. I can guarantee a few chuckles at my expense.

* * * * *

Failure #1: Successfully drive a car

Thinking back on my early life, I don’t recall ever possessing a real desire to drive. I wasn’t constantly daydreaming about all the places I’d go in my car. I did sort of expect that I would join the wheeled masses. Driving is just one of those skills that people assume everyone has―like the ability to tie a shoe or use the toilet. You just do it and don’t think about it.

The interest I developed as a teenager arose mostly out of peer pressure and envy. And, if we’re honest, to get a teensy taste of freedom that driving might allow. Didn’t I want to join the kids in the parking lot who were sitting on car hoods and smoking questionable substances? Didn’t I want to cruise the main strip in my small town? Well…The call of the open road came from an unlisted number, so I didn’t pick up.

My father received the call of the road early in his life and spent most of his life as a mechanic and cross-country truck driver. He dedicated so much time to his vocation that it actually led to his demise. While out on a call with his towing service, he was struck down by a drunk driver. My father was also seduced away from my mother and they had been apart for most of my young life. I was 14 at the time of his death and had very little contact with him. Tragic all the way around, but less painful than you might expect from such a loss. My father’s death, and to a lesser extent his career, did have some impact on my decision to resist driving. In my explanations to strangers bewildered by my license-free existence, I have given his death more credit than it actually deserves. I missed out on sitting on my daddy’s lap and helping him steer his semi cab. He didn’t give me a rusty old clunker that I could bang into a couple of lampposts. But through his death, I was afforded other opportunities. Had my parental units made different decisions and life gone a different way, I might be compiling a list of 30 different failures.

My mother didn’t drive―or own a car―until her late 20s. My sister was 30 with a newborn when she finally got her license. My maternal grandmother relied on the kindness of strangers and relatives to ferry her around town. My maternal great-grandmother would hire a taxi to visit the liquor store

and deliver her booze order to her door. So, it wasn’t entirely expected that I would jump behind the wheel on my 16th birthday. However, out of obligation I took driver’s ed and through youthful optimism I bought a car.

My most memorable driving experience involves the test drive of my green 1996 Dodge Neon. Whoever had the bright idea to put an unlicensed 16-year-old in the driver’s seat of a brand new car and take it off the lot should’ve been fired that day. My mother and I took it out into the neighbourhood behind the dealership. I tried to make as many right hand turns as possible as I hadn’t quite mastered the art of steering and right turns were easier than left turns. Returning to the lot, I was so focused on trying to park the car between the lines of the space that I drove up onto the sidewalk, managing to stop mere inches from the showroom entrance. We bought the car I would call Raymond a few weeks later, probably from a different dealership, but I couldn’t get motivated to take him out for a spin.

The number of times I’ve operated a vehicle is far outranked by the number of boyfriends I’ve had. Three of these boyfriends had the pleasure of driving Raymond and the displeasure of experiencing my freak outs in the driver’s seat. I struggled to find a co-pilot who could be kind and patient and non-judgmental as I fiddled with all the dashboard doodads. Eventually I gave up, content with the notion of being a life-long passenger. The Volkwagen ad was right―there are passengers and there are drivers. And I call shotgun.

I gave up my car long ago. For all the freedom driving supposedly gives you, I think I have just a bit more. I’m free of insurance premiums and maintenance costs. I don’t worry about my car getting stolen or damaged. I am not on the quest of the perfect parking space. On road trips I am the designated navigator and snack dispenser. The rising cost of gasoline has no direct impact on my pocketbook. Since moving out of rural Alabama, I’ve chosen locations based on walkability and public transit. My general rule is if a destination unreachable by bus or by foot, it’s not my destiny to visit. This is probably a smarter way to live now, what with efforts to be eco-friendly and reducing the carbon footprint or whatever planet-saving buzzword you’re using these days. Maybe I’m not a failure but a genius, way ahead of my time. Uh-huh.

* * * * *

Failure #2: Develop an ample bosom

In general, flat-chested girls are often ridiculed and overlooked as sex objects. We don’t get fair representation in the media. The best role models we have are Olive Oyl and Helen Gurley Brown―neither great examples of female empowerment. In fact, most small-breasted women involved in the media have succumbed to insecurity/pressure and undergone breast augmentation. Even Helen Gurley Brown went up a cup size at age 73. We don’t have charming euphemisms for our breasts―unless you consider “mosquito bites” to be a term of endearment. More often than not, we are made to feel ashamed of our bodies. Granted, it’s rare to find anyone who actually has a positive body image. It seems like everyone’s got some flaw they’re looking to conceal or change.

Through exposure to television, magazines, billboards, and a well-endowed older sister, I assumed an ample bosom was the norm. I fully expected that by my 13th birthday I would develop my own set of perky breasts that would magically lift me out of my pudgy awkward childhood. Sadly, I remained pudgy and awkward for another six years. And by age 30, I think it’s safe to assume that I’m not just a late bloomer.

We’re programmed to expect some sort of development in the chest region. And when it doesn’t quite happen, it’s very disappointing. Waking up every day with small breasts is like Christmas morning and discovering all your friends got Barbie dream houses and you got a package of socks. Well, I suppose those might come in handy. Anyway, it’s a bummer. Not only personally, but to suitors and beaus. When a boy realizes that he’s fallen for a small-chested girl, he has to quickly disguise his disappointment. “Oh…well that’s alright…y’know, more than a mouthful is a waste…” he says, followed by a half-hearted chuckle. And even though both parties move past it and might settle into a cozy little relationship, the ghost of his disappointment lingers.

Despite my lack of buoyancy, I have dated pretty steadily since my first official date as a freshman in high school. Being small-chested hasn’t rendered me a hopeless spinster, never to know the feel of a man’s touch. However, even though all of the guys have been kind and accepting, none have been especially enthusiastic on first encounter of my A-cups. In other words, no one’s said “Oh boy, I love small tits! This is the best day ever!” And in some cases there might have been some expectations that I might be willing to do certain other things. Y’know, since he’d been so gracious about accepting me as I am. We don’t keep in touch.

All of my friends, growing up and through adulthood, have been substantially more endowed than myself. I couldn’t related to any of the issues myfriends had with their breasts. Problems with staring, underwire, bra snapping, back problems, and accidentally dropping spare change into cleavage were foreign to me. So I had no one to join me in my quest for the perfect bra or to try any of the silly regimens offered to small-breasted suckers. All of the experimentations were done sequestered in my bedroom, away from prying eyes and derisive comments.

There are a variety of devices a girl can use if she’s dissatisfied with the size of her chest―exercises, cremes, makeup tricks, falsies, and so on. Thankfully, I grew up with alternatives that were more sophisticated than the ol’ stuff the bra with socks or tissue method. Over time, I tried the Wonderbra, the water bra, the bra with gel-filled cups, and those inserts that look like chicken cutlets. Some more comfortable than others but none could authentically mimic the real things and it all felt deceptive. Any attention received while wearing the falsies wasn’t honest. And it was never fully appreciated. If any padding felt unsecured, I would spend the evening checking myself out in every reflective surface and one eye on my pretend cleavage just in case anything shifted. This distraction made simple activities like talking, eating, and breathing quite challenging. And forget about bowling!

I’ll admit that thoughts of augmentation have flittered through my mind. I never gave it serious consideration because I don’t see the long-term benefits and if I was going to splurge on physical alterations, I’d probably have LASIK or cyborg modifications. Of course, then I’d be a flat-chested lady cyborg, further disenchanting the hordes of geeky boys in my target demographic.

More than feeling inferior or lacking femininity, I feel gypped. I feel like I was robbed of fun and exciting social experiences. People actually look me in the eyes. None of my friends’ brothers “accidentally” walked in on me in the shower. I didn’t attend hair band concerts or Mardi Gras parades and lift my top. I was never a Girl Gone Wild. My dreams of entering the adult entertainment industry were crushed. No. I had to be funny. And creative. And good at Boggle.

Maybe I could dedicate the next 30 years of my life to small breast advocacy. Promote myself as a successful member of the IBTC. That would first require a success. Maybe I’ll toss out all the padded bras and embrace my body as it is, not as society perceives it should be. Or maybe I’ll write a novelty book of euphemisms for small breasts.

* * * * *

Failure #3: Master the art of conversation

Can you tell me when being a polite, quiet person fell out of vogue? At what age should one be heard as well as seen? When is it appropriate to speak even when not spoken to? I think I was absent the day this stuff was covered.

When I was younger, my quiet nature was a virtue. The adults in my life were so impressed with my ability to sit down and shut up. The teachers appreciated how well-behaved I was and often stuck me with the task of taking down the names of all the heathens who would cause a ruckus when no adults were present. Sometime after graduation, though, people began to equate quiet with weird. A few would ask “Why are you so quiet?” in an accusatory tone, as if politely listening to a conversation was a sin.

As an introvert and recluse-in-training, I have little occasion to practice the art of conversation. In my defense, I can blame some of my social awkwardness on my hearing impairment. To avoid the frustrations and (quite literal) headaches that come with trying to concentrate on multiple strains of conversation, I just stay out of social situations as much as possible.

When I am thrust into social settings, conversations generally fall into two categories: things I’ve never done but others have and things I don’t care about. So when someone starts off by saying “One time I was so wasted…” or “Remember at Bible camp when…” I know it’s time for me to sit back and think about foods I have enjoyed because I won’t have anything intelligent or fun to contribute to the conversation.

Since my silence was encouraged when I was a kid, I never got properly socialized. Where does one go to learn small talk? I went to public school. My family only ate around the dinner table on holidays. Church? Oh, it has to be church. I didn’t really go to church, so that must be the source of small talk refinement. Anyone can talk about Jesus!

“So, how about that Jesus?”

“Yep, he’s a swell guy.”

“Some weather we’ve been having.”

“You know who enjoyed a good rain shower? Jesus.”

Sometimes I surprise myself and carry on delightful conversations with one or two people. Most of the time, however, I am a frog in a shoebox (Hello my baby, hello my honey…ribbit). And content to sit back and let people talk at me or just let the surrounding conversations wash over me, absorbing the bits and snippets of chatter that filter through my faulty ears. In fact, there are times when I don’t notice that I haven’t been actively participating and I don’t feel awkward about it. But then some wisenheimer pipes up with “Jeez Katharine, stop hogging the conversation…maybe next time you’ll let someone else talk.” Reminding me once again of my social inadequacy.

As a writer, I have control over how and when I share information. In a conversation, the other party can ask questions about things I’d rather not discuss―like family life, occupation and why I moved from the Deep South to the Great White North. While writing these essays, I can present sensitive information and touchy topics far better than I can articulate them over cocktails in a bar. On the rare occasion that I do get into a conversation and someone asks those seemingly banal getting-to-know-you questions, I freeze up like a deer in headlights. I don’t have easy responses because I haven’t had an easy life. “Where are you from?” usually leads to “Why don’t you have an accent?” And I just don’t want to get into a discussion about my hearing impairment with someone I’ve just met and will possibly never speak to again.

I can get away with the ol’ nod-and-smile for just so long before people catch on that I’m not as polite as I am socially dysfunctional. Maybe I’ll sign up for Remedial Small Talk for Introverts at the learning centre. I should strive to become more engaged and engaging. At the very least, I could add more guttural utterances when someone asks me about the weather.

* * * * *

Failure #4: Ride a bicycle

Wheels are not my friends. They do wonderful things for other people and provide numerous helpful services. But we do not get along. Oh, we’ve tried to make it work, but I just kept getting hurt.

Every attempt to go roller skating led to me collapsed on top of one twisted ankle or another. A trip around the go-kart track ended with tears, an injured foot and a missing shoe. My elementary school had piles of old tires as playground equipment and I was always falling into them. I even stub my toe when pushing a grocery cart.

And so I’ve never ridden a bicycle. Never experienced the freedom of taking off on my bike to ride with friends down cheery tree-lined suburban streets. Never rode a tandem bike with a beau around a riverfront park. Never entertained fantasies of competing in the Tour de France. Never had a legitimate excuse for wearing spandex shorts in public…

Like anything worth doing, riding a bike requires time, practice and patience. No one in my household had experience in bike riding. The only bicycle we owned was a stationary exercise bike in my mother’s bedroom. I would occasionally play on it while watching Perfect Strangers on TGIF. Because my feet couldn’t reach the pedals, playing really meant honking the horn at Balki and Cousin Larry until my sister would yell for me to quit it. Unlike a car or pony or personal chauffeur, we probably could’ve afforded a cheap, used, beat up old bike for me to crash into a tree. Living just below the poverty line in the U.S. did mean that we couldn’t afford the hospital bills if I’d crashed myself into a tree. And I wasn’t the most graceful child. Even with three seasons of dance classes, I was pudgy and clumsy. I could bruise simply by sitting down.

But looking back, I didn’t yearn after that little pink bicycle with the tassles and the basket with flower decals. It was never on my Christmas wish list. Instead, I dreamed of a limousine with a hot tub in the back after I saw it in Phil Collins’ video for “Take Me Home”. Surely I couldn’t get hurt in that!

When my family moved to the outskirts of a smaller, more rural town, bike riding became even less of a possibility. Living right off a highway meant the streets weren’t really child-friendly. Or pedestrian-friendly. Unless you liked trying to cheat death by dodging log trucks.

I suppose it’s not too late to learn. I could go into a local bike shop and buy some cheap, beat up old thing―plus all the silly safety accessories that one needs these days. After suffering through a hilarious montage of bike accidents, I could be feeling the wind in my hair and bugs in my teeth. And, finally, I would have an excuse to wear that spandex bodysuit.

* * * * *

Failure #5: Failing to procreate

This is not a failure. I do not consider my abstention from parenthood itself a failure. It is simply one more example of how choices I have made set me apart from the norm and make socialization a challenge. The decision to remain child-free is still an unpopular one in North America, but my womb is delighted to not be contributing to the world’s population and overcrowded public school classrooms.

That I emerged from rural Alabama without becoming a young mother is a miracle as the penises of young virile Alabama boys are strongly averse to condoms. I don’t know if this is a religious matter or an issue with extra foreskin or the lack of proper sex education in schools. I knew several girls who got knocked up before graduation. Some girls arrived at high school freshman orientation with their newborns. Which seems like an awful lot of work just to get out of writing the “What I Did on Summer Vacation” essay.

I don’t have any gut-wrenching experiences with abortion, miscarriages or pregnancy scares. As miraculous as it may seem, I have reached the end of my 20s without purchasing a home pregnancy test. And yet I am not a 30-year-old virgin. Is this a sign of practiced responsibility or undetected infertility?

Over the years I’ve heard the arguments for and against motherhood. I took it all under advisement and arrived at the logical conclusion that I would not be a mommy. In a society that believes an empty womb is a wasted womb, motherhood is an assumed eventuality. Advances in science and modern medicine still leave me prey to older women patting me on the knee and telling me it’s not too late to change my mind and have a little one of my own. A friend of my mother once told me that pregnancy increased breast size, as if the prospect of larger breasts would convince me to have children. Um, no. Also, what an odd thing to tell a 16-year-old-girl.

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