I’ve been told I was talented, or more specifically, “really good” at something maybe four or five times throughout my life. The first time was in Kindergarten and it occurred during a parent/teacher/student night. According to my dad, while I was across the room illustrating my ability to color inside the lines, one of my classmates, his little hands tucked into his pint-size corduroy pants, walked up to him and asked “You’re Kim’s dad?” Trying to stifle a laugh, and with as much sincerity as he could muster, Dad responded “Yes I am, young man-” The boy, his brow furrowed, stood for a moment, shuffled his feet and stated very matter-of-factly “That Kim, she’s a good skipper. Really good. Probably the best skipper in our class.” It saddens me that I didn’t hear of this until many years later and have no idea which boy was so taken by my skipping ability. I can’t help but wonder where I'd be now if I’d the physical training and emotional support from my family to pursue my skipping vocation. It’s very possible I could have been the first gold-medalist Olympic skipper on a box of Wheaties.
Skip now (pun intended) to the spring of my senior year in high school. A watercolor painting I had submitted in art class for the statewide ‘500 Festival of Arts’ competition actually took 2nd place! I was beaming with adolescent pride when announcing to family and friends that my artwork would be on display at the Children’s Museum the following month. Dad and I planned our excursion to the museum the first week of the exhibit. I had imagined my water color matted and framed, hanging elegantly under one of those fancy brass wall lamps, with a red velvet rope on the floor in front of it, to keep patrons hands off. This fantasy came to a screeching halt when we finally found my precious water color scotch-taped to a gray concrete column that ran up the inside of a stair case. And if that wasn’t sobering enough, the index card beside it read: Water Color Painting - Kim Conner: Second Place- North Central High School Tenth Grade.
What? Tenth grade? A sophomore? I was livid. It’s bad enough to be mistaken for a sophomore when you’re a senior, but I immediately began having self-doubts about my painting and artistic endeavors. Did my work really look so mediocre that they assumed it was the work of a mere sophomore? The only worse insult would have been if the index card indicated "Freshman" and had been scotch-taped to the inside of a bathroom stall. Dad failed to see what the big deal was, but he was obviously clueless about the vast differences between sophomores and seniors in terms of maturity, artistic talent, and overall sophistication. Regretfully, after the 'art museum incident', as it would be called in subsequent years, I began to slowly lose interest in painting and drawing. After high school, I would do the occasional pencil sketch or watercolor painting, but never quite felt I had the “right stuff” to pursue a career in art.
When I was 34, I signed up for an improvisational comedy class through an adult learning course catalog. I’d originally picked up the catalog to look for a photography class until I stumbled across “Basic Improvisation I”. It sounded like fun, and a good way to meet people. Besides, friends had occasionally praised me for my sense of humor and my uncanny, if useless, ability to make up silly poems or songs for almost any occasion. I signed up and loved it. I enrolled for the intermediate class as soon as the beginners’ class ended. I knew the games and exercises would be more challenging, but I was up for it, and considering most of the students were those I’d gotten to know in the previous class, it seemed even easier to take both the physical and creative risks.
After completing the beginning and intermediate workshops relatively unscathed, I plunged into the final “advanced” level. This workshop would further hone our skills and the final 2 classes would be actual auditions for the performance troupe. As was always the case, I struggled with more physically demanding sketches due mostly to self-consciousness about my physical shape and age (I was about 10 years older than most of my classmates, and not exactly "athletic" at the time). Wordplay and rhyming games were my favorite exercises, as they seemed the easiest to me.
Despite the butterflies and sweaty palms I had through the intimidating first round of auditions, I managed to make second call-back. This is IT! If I could make it through the first audition, I could certainly get through the second. Besides, I was more confident going into the second audition, since I knew what to expect. The more physical sketches were early on, and I actually did better with them than I thought I would. “Great!” I thought, 2 hours into the audition. “I’m into the home stretch, only one exercise left and it's a rhyming song game!! Ha! A no-brainer! Watch out world, here I come!!” Unfortunately, when it was my turn to add my verse to the group’s song, the fickle hand of fate decided to jam its fingers down my throat and I choked. “Seriously, Kim?” I thought to myself in that instant “On a rhyming game? A simple rhyming game?” I couldn’t believe it. Even more humiliating was the fact that the name I needed a rhyme for was so simple. It was “Bob”. Yep, Bob. Not Muriel. Not Xavier. Just … Bob. I couldn’t think of a single thing in that fateful moment that rhymed with Bob. Not slob. Not snob. Not even corn-on-the-cob. According to witnesses, my face and mouth froze solid and my eyes glazed over. I imagined it was the most shameful moment in improvisational history. I didn’t make the cut. I don’t know if “The Bob Fiasco” was the final nail in my comedic coffin, but after that audition I came to the conclusion that any talent I may or may not have for witty banter is best expressed off stage.
I suppose some of the over-achieving "Go-Getter" types among us would tell me that I accept defeat too easily, or remind me that practice makes perfect, or spew some annoying cliché about “getting right back on the horse", which is why I wish those people had to wear a huge scarlet “GG” on their shirts, so that I could distinguish them and therefore avoid them. But alas, they could be right. Perhaps I’m too content being “average”. This could stem from a genetic "fear of failure" strand in my DNA, or some repressed subconscious psychological issue from childhood. Or, even worse, I could just be lazy. However, I prefer to think that I have a ‘talent’ for knowing when to quit. And believe me, this is NOT the type of 'talent' that children are born with, but rather a craft which must be honed through years of “average” and “acceptable” accomplishments.
As I’ve matured, I’ve discovered that talent isn’t the most important thing in the world. I’m now content to do several things marginally well. I also find it much more rewarding to simply be “in the moment” of whatever it is I’m doing, be it physical, artistic or anything expressive. I read once that anything worth doing is worth doing badly, and I agree whole-heartedly (otherwise karaoke and "American Idol" would never have become so popular). I feel comfortable enough with myself and the world around me to play the fool, so long as I'm having fun.
American society loves to reward the fastest, smartest, prettiest, richest, most talented, best-dressed, and most successful more so than any other country in the world. Taking pride in a job well done(or just…”done”, for that matter) is no longer validation enough, we need trophies, statues, ribbons, awards, swag bags, magazine spreads, cereal box covers, anything tangible to mark the moment in history when we beat out all those other poor schmucks we were competing against. I guess it just seems a bit unfair to the well-meaning under-achievers like me (and I like to believe we ARE in the majority) that there are no awards or trophies or accolades to distinguish those of us who have achieved an admirable and heartfelt level of mediocrity in the many paths of life we have taken.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go outside and skip around for a while.
