I need to say something out loud, but you have to promise not to laugh.
You’re going to think I’m kidding, but I promise you I’m not. When my six year old son Ben thinks I am kidding, he raises a dubious eyebrow and asks, “In real life, dad?”
In real life, Ben.
Just ask Mary. When you ask her if I’m kidding about what I’m going to tell you in this super vulnerable – and serious – blog, she will give a demure shrug and look away, because we have a pact not to make fun of each other in front of other human beings. But when you ask her, just look at her eyes. They will be mocking me with the merciless tenacity of a professional heckler.
When I tell you, you’re going to need to suppress your chortle, because I am being vulnerable here. Please put down your coffee. Spit takes aren’t funny, they’re obnoxious. I’m going to tell you, and you’re going to take it like a man.
Wait – one more thing before I tell you. You need to know that I’m good at lots of things. Granted, none of those things involve plumbing, or fixing or installing or removing anything that breaks inside my house or my car, but I am awesome at so many, many things. Seriously – so many of the things. Just so we’re clear. A whole. Lotta. Things.
Now, after I tell you, you can’t mention it to me, ever. It goes into the vault. This is just something that needs to get out there into the world. No calls. No texts. No emails. And for the love of Tim Riggins, don’t comment. Don’t you dare comment. This is me being vulnerable. Courageous. Putting my self out there.
And by the way, it’s not like you’re awesome at everything. I don’t see you writing blogs about stuff like this. When was the last time you confessed something like this? Probably never. Oh, and if you can “change your oil yourself,” and if you know how to “check the fuse box,” or if you don’t “hire someone to change the batteries in your smoke detectors,” just shut it. Nobody likes a braggart.
Here it is: When life calls upon me to make sunny side-up eggs, I cannot for the life of me crack an egg without breaking the yolk. On my best morning, my accuracy is no better than 50%. One out of every two yolks I cook ends up bleeding all over the whites, like too much sagging flesh. This is not a big deal when making pancakes, or scrambled eggs, but when it comes to making eggs sunny side up, I am the equivalent of Ross Gellar trying to stay married.
I have anxiety about it every time. And I have tried everything. Crack that egg firmly! Crack it softly. Crack it on the countertop. Crack it on the edge of the frying pan. I have even tried cracking it on my actual forehead. Okay, I haven’t gone that far, that would be ridiculous.
I’ve tried YouTubing it for tips. But all I find are supercilious moms who crack a dozen flawless eggs while holding two babies and making fresh squeezed orange juice with the self-assured panache of James Dean taking a drag from his Lucky Strike.
So now is the part of the blog when I make the big turn, and say we all need to focus on what we’re good at. To say that we all have limits, and we need to embrace them! Some of us can crack a perfect egg one hundred straight times, and some of us can use supercilious (correctly) in a blog post and get 1,000 Facebook shares (do your part, good reader), so go embrace your gifts and laugh at your foibles!
Heck no. I can’t crack an egg. Life is over.