I Was Never Good at Sports Because My Family Never Loved Me

During a recent visit to my parents' house, I stumbled upon some old photographs. These photographs brought to light a humiliating experience I managed to erase from my memory for almost 20 years. Until now.

Upon my discovery of the photographs:

Wendy (my mother):
I think this explains your aversion to sports!
Jean: 
You mean like how I was titled "the athletic disappointment of the family" or how you guys told everyone my basketball position in middle school was "left out?" 

I truly never did fit in with other girls.

This is a photo from 1993. You might be laughing at the silliness of such a tiny child wearing such large clothes. Perhaps you are wondering who the little boy in the photograph is and what he could have done to humiliate me.

The sad truth of the matter is, this is me at my first soccer practice wearing a "Greece Boys Soccer League" t-shirt with my brother's shorts and socks. My brother is seven years older than me. A six-year-old girl in a 13-year-old teenage boy's clothes.

The story goes that my father accidentally ordered my soccer uniform and extra shorts in an Adult Small instead of a Children's Small. I did not have any other soccer shorts at the time, so my dad graciously dressed me in my brother's for practice. Along with a boys' shirt.

This is the first time I ever played organized sports. I continued playing sports until I was 17,  finally concluding I just did not care about them.

 

I remember other girls wore pink shorts to practice and had sparkly laces on their cleats.

If only I had photographs from the time everyone forgot to pick me up from practice.

I like to blame my shopping addiction and clothing obsession on attending a Catholic high school and enduring four years in an ugly uniform. I now wonder if my distaste for wearing pants or refusal to be seen in public wearing the same thing twice stems from longing to look like a girl as a child.

Add Walking to The List

Since my elbow is almost fully healed, the only logical thing for me to do next was injure another joint. A fully-functioning body is a gift only deserved by the normally functioning humans.

 Last night (Friday, September 21), I sprained my ankle. 

 I am usually very against foot photos. Feet are really gross and ugly and should be kept private. But, if I'm gonna share all my embarrassments, why not flaunt my monstrous ankle?

Spending a sunny, 80 degree Saturday on my bed with two computers whilst my friends are at Oyster festivals and such. I shall now add "walking" to the never-ending list of my incompetencies.

I cannot drive a car, ride a bicycle or walk without breaking or injuring something.

I joked about staying in alone after breaking my elbow. Perhaps this is a sign. 

I Broke My Elbow

August 11, 2012

Over cocktails at my apartment.

Leila: (My dainty British friend, shaking her head in disbelief)
Jean, I still cannot believe you broke your arm. 
Molly:
Hahaha! I can.
Leila:
Actually, I'm quite surprised you made it this long. I would have thought you'd have wound up in the emergency room a few times by now. 
....................................................................................

A long, emotional road led to my broken elbow, dating back to early June when I decided to surprise my boyfriend Andrew with a new bicycle for his birthday. I ordered the perfect bicycle, guaranteed to arrive before July. Days before Andrew's birthday, an email informed me the bicycle would arrive late. 

This email marked the first of probably 17 (but likely closer to 25) times I cried over the bicycle. After pleading emails and phone calls with the bicycle company, screaming matches on the FedEx customer service hotline, crying in a FedEx store and at least ten arm-flailing rants of distress to my roommates, Andrew finally received his bicycle August 2nd. Almost a full month after his birthday.

Friday, August 3rd, we set out for happy hour, riding through the sun on our not-too-matchy-matchy matching fixed-gear bicycles, smiling in our vintage Rays Bans as our hair blew in the summer breeze. I believe we both wore denim cutoff shorts as well. It truly was a beautiful vision of young love. The glory of our ride redeemed the long wait for his bicycle. We turned right onto Grand Street, planning to stop at one of our favorite local bars, BCC. 

The ride was too glorious to stop and I came up with a plan better than BCC. "Andrew! Let's keep going, just follow me!" I sped down Grand Street toward Alligator Lounge, where we could get free pizza.

I hadn't biked in the city in over a year, but that is no excuse for what happened next. I blame my complete incompetence of properly operating or directing any moving object, including, but not limited to: cars, bicycles and my own body. 

A green light glistened ahead at the intersection of  Grand Street and Manhattan Avenue. I checked for cars coming toward us and began turning left, heading toward Metropolitan Avenue. Then out of nowhere, a cab hit me. I suppose I should have checked for cars coming from behind. I looked up at Andrew in horror as the cab sped away. Every other driver and pedestrian paused to gawk at me lying on the ground, under a bicycle, in the middle of Grand Street. I looked like a complete doofus. I didn't care about myself. I've ruined too many things to waste time concerning myself with personal well-being. I cared about the bike and Andrew having fun. Once I realized the bike was okay, I sprung up, grabbed the bike and scurried half a block away, escaping the crowd of humiliation. 

My arm hurt, but I figured it was just a tiny sprain. Refusing to allow my mistake to ruin this bike ride, I hopped on my bike, ready to go. A sharp pain shot through my left arm once I touched the handle bar, but I couldn't let myself ruin Andrew's bike ride. I played it off for twenty minutes before admitting I needed to go home.

I vowed to suppress tears until inside my apartment. I only needed to maintain the appearance of a normal, mature adult until I got home. Once inside the privacy of my apartment, I could call my brother James and tearfully share the traumatic story. As we neared my apartment, I remembered James was at a concert with my sister-in-law Nicole.

In the past, my emotional moments often aligned with James' special occasions. As a child, I unintentionally humiliated teenage James by sharing our code names for different types of hugs. I distracted my parents with girlish whining during most James' soccer tournaments. I interfered with his social life because I preferred him over other babysitters. I'm pretty sure I threw a fit before his high school graduation because I loathed my dress. I didn't let him forget how cool his friends thought Grown-up Jean was during his wedding reception. I allowed him and Nicole to console me about boy problems on the phone during their honeymoon in Hawaii. James even solved a trivial argument I had with our brother, while we were in Florida and James was in New York, taking Nicole to the hospital... to give birth to their first son. After 25 years of torture, it was time to stop ruining James' life. The truth hurt my heart more than the speedy cab hurt my arm. I rode the final block to my apartment shamelessly sobbing because I could not call my big brother and cry to him.

Andrew took this photo & secretly sent it to James so he would call me after the concert. 

When we got in, Andrew calmed me down, gave me ice and ran out for ice packs and bandages. I sat on the couch, icing my arm, thinking about how Andrew finally got his present and I managed to ruin it even more by getting hit by a cab. I decided to stop being a baby and whip up a surprise dinner. An atonement of sorts for continuously ruining Andrew's chance of bicycle happiness.

Thanks to the numbing effects of ice and vodka, I managed to single-handedly (literally), prepare a ham and pineapple entree with a side of homemade broccoli bacon macaroni and cheese. I grabbed a large pan filled with soapy water, so I could wash it before dining. The instant I picked up the pan with my left arm, the entire contents poured out like a waterfall, drenching the kitchen floor. The giant pan loudly crashed into the sea of soapy water. Apparently, my left arm was injured. 

I screamed in pain, then told Andrew I did it purposely so we could use the soapy water to mop the floor. We cleaned the mess, ate our dinner, had some cocktails over a few episodes of X-Files and enjoyed a relatively nice Friday evening. A few hours later, the ice melted and the vodka buzz wore off, drawing attention to the excruciating pain in my arm. Around midnight, I woke my mother Wendy with a phone call, and as any model daughter would do, I informed her I fell off my bicycle earlier in the day and could not bend my arm. Wendy was incredibly pleased with this one.

After the doctor, Andrew & I stopped at a cafe. 
He ate pizza whilst I drank a white wine lunch.
I had to make the most of things.

Because I am terrified of hospitals and all the crazy crackheads who frequent them late at night, I delayed seeking medical attention until the next morning when I could go to an urgent care doctor. About 15 hours after colliding with the speedy cab, the doctor told me I suffered a radial head fracture on my elbow. He put my arm in a cast, strapped a sling on me and sent me back out to share my humiliating story.

Looking back three weeks later, I wonder if it was actually the pan of soapy water that ultimately caused the hairline fracture. Had I not been so determined to prepare a ham dinner, would my arm be in a sling right now? I suppose it is a mystery.

Perhaps I should have gone straight to the hospital after the collision. Perhaps the stress of lifting a heavy pan multiplied a minor injury and caused the fracture. Perhaps I should have let Andrew take the lead during our bicycle ride. Perhaps multiple car accidents should have taught me to pay attention to the road. Perhaps if I resisted my hunger pains for free pizza and followed our original plan to stop at BCC, I wouldn't have crossed paths with the cab. Perhaps I should just stay in my apartment and avoid interacting with the outer world. The list of "should haves" runs endlessly, but I try not to think  like that. If I did, I would probably hate myself a lot more.

I Turned 25 and Still Can't Dress Myself

Earlier this month I turned 25. Aside from the internal conflicts concerning getting older and remaining confused about most things in life, it was one of the best (if not the best) birthdays of my life. I dedicated five glorious days to celebrating with my closest friends. Other than a slight mishap involving my employer waking me up with a phone call two hours after I was suppose to be at work, everything was perfect. Since I've locked myself in my room for the weekend to work on final projects due in school next week, I decided what better way to waste time than spend an hour looking at photos and videos from my birthday week.

Whilst watching this video I congratulated myself for my achievements in becoming a more composed and mature adult.

Then I realized I was wearing my pants inside out. It didn't shock me. At least once a week I realize I'm wearing my underwear inside out halfway through the day. Maybe this isn't something that happens to a lot of people. Maybe it isn't something I should really be sharing. I'm 25 years old and I don't know how to properly dress myself.

Yup, that's the inside seam. Two hours later I'm yet to fix the situation.

Celica vs. Edward Scissorhands vs. Frankenstein

After driving around with a dangling headlight for nearly a month, I decided it was time to bring my car to a mechanic. I would have held off longer, but my clutch broke. Driving 20mph on expressways isn't very conducive to my schedule and I suppose transporting myself in a death trap isn't so conducive to staying alive. Therefore, I came to terms with wasting my money on a car for the sake of living. I told my mechanic I didn't care what my car looked like. I just didn't want to die in it or get a ticket for the missing headlight/turn signal. I wanted the cheapest job possible. 

My new bumper reminded me of Edward Scissorhands' stiches. 

My roommate Ryan said it's more reminiscent of Frankenstein.

I have absolutely no shame. 

The Single Eye Tear Phenomenon

I had a long, strange week, which equates to a normal Jean week. I endured ridiculous disasters and  a woeful disappointment, which ultimately lead to the story I'm about to share. I'll share the week's deplorable events in another post when I have time.

Since I take pleasure in publicizing my ugliest, most-unflattering moments, this gem cannot wait.

Friday February 24, 2012 (last night)
8:55pm

Text from Eavvon:
What bar do you want to meet at?
Text from Jean:
Hmmm I'm in pj's watching Arrested Development and just ate a large amount of baby arugula and chickenless nuggets, but I haven't seen you in ages so let's get drunk.
Text from Jean:
But can we go somewhere that doesn't require me to wash my hair?

Yes, dining on a gourmet dinner for one in sweats is how I spend most Friday nights. In fact, I look forward to my Friday nights in. I spent most of yesterday longing for the moment I'd get home, throw on some slipper socks and start my new book.

Unfortunately, due to various life circumstances, I felt a bit off most the week. I knew staying in alone would inevitably lead to lying in bed online shopping and eating chocolate cake while contemplating why the world hates me so much. I decided I might as well go out and have fun instead of containing myself in a trap of unnecessary sadness.

An hour later, Eavvon and I were at BCC having a grand time. Around midnight, it was time to part ways. I had two options.

1. Go home and get some rest after a refreshingly fun evening.
2. Meet up with my girlfriends, fully cognizant meeting them at that hour could only result in disaster.

It's no question which option I chose.

I couldn't even reach the meeting place without getting myself into a mess.

My friend Katelyn told me to meet her at a party on Jefferson Street in Bushwick. I immediately realized she must have meant Jefferson Avenue when the cab driver dropped me off, sped away and left me alone on a dark street where there was definitely not a party.

It was cold. The little dress I had on certainly was not keeping me warm and every creep in the neighborhood felt compelled to make me uncomfortable. A lifetime of six minutes trying to get a cab, twenty dollars and a few arguments with a cab driver later, I made it to the party in one piece.

Sort of.

The wrong address debacle re-ignited my lousy mood, so I needed to have extra fun. Extra fun required extra vodka. Extra vodka resulted in expressing my dissatisfaction with life by exclaiming, "I DON'T GIVE A F*CK!"countless times to my friends.

I'm not even sure what it was I didn't give a f*ck about. It just felt good to say. I wanted to have fun, no matter how much I hated my life and bursts of vulgarity seemed to boost my mood.

Two hours later, I convinced myself everyone else was exponentially more intoxicated than me. I became annoyed and concluded the night needed to end. We headed to Katelyn's place, where the other girls passed out while my friend Erin made me a delicious egg sandwich.

Naturally, upon my first bite of food all the vodka-infused self-loathing kicked in and my world-hating rants began.

At one point I was sitting on the floor next to an open fridge eating a pickle trying to hold back tears while lamenting to Erin.

We finished eating and I told Erin I needed to go home and sleep in my own bed.

Truthfully, I needed a good cry and didn't think Erin and I had reached the point in our friendship where I could put her through the arduous task of consoling me. I feel no shame in forcing my roommates to join me on my emotional rollercoasters, so I wasted another $20 on a car home.

Thank God I found a bag of chips in my purse to save me from sobbing to the driver.

Finally home safe in my warm apartment, exhausted in every way possible, it only made sense to do every thing other than go to sleep.

So what's a melodramatic, self-loathing 24-year-old female whose distraught over life and filled with vodka do at 3:30am?

I can't speak for anyone else, but I can tell ya what I did.

I called my roommate Alex, who was clearly in bed trying to sleep. I mean, why not just make everyone hate me as much as I hate myself? Ryan was at his girlfriend's being all happy and in love. Their thoughtlessness appalled me. My selfish roommates did not plan their nights in accordance with the possibility I'd need a solid hour to cry about my life to them. My life was a mess and no one loved me.

I grabbed a string cheese to comfort my lonely soul, threw my freshly clean laundry on the floor and got on my computer.

So there I sat, 4am, eating cheese, looking at girls prettier than me on Facebook, blasting Rilo Kiley and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and trying to figure out why the world hates me so much.

That's when it happened.

Since I cried a bit, I went to my bathroom for a tissue. When I looked in the mirror, eye makeup was only smudged on one eye. Only one of my eyes was producing tears. For lack of better words, I could not believe my eyes! This never happened to me before and it totally blew my mind. Finding it absolutely imperative to document this phenomenon, I opened Photo Booth on my computer and snapped some shots.

On top of all the other things I'm terrible at, I cannot even cry like a normal human anymore.

This is me circa 4am...crying/trying not to laugh at myself for crying like a baby and documenting the one-eyed tear phenomenon..but also laughing/trying not to cry about how much I hate the world.

I'm rlly hawt

I spent the majority of today in my bed with a box of Godiva chocolate and two computers. Clearly, it takes more skill than I possess to eat lying in bed...hence the chocolate sauce filling near my collar bone.

Circa 3 in the afternoon.

The Most-Expensive Target Trip Ever

Before sharing this story, I must note I have not shared it with my father, mother or brothers yet. In fact, I'm terrified to tell them what I'm about to publish on the interweb. My palms are getting a bit sweaty just thinking about it. Fortunately, they all realized most thoughts and words I produce are useless and stopped paying attention to me years ago.

This gives me at least a few hours until my sister-in-law reads this, shows my brother and he tattles on me.

Mom & Dad, I'm sorry. I'll call you on Tuesday. I promise I'll fix everything.

9:30am Friday
February 3, 2012 

Text to Gigi & Molly from Jean:
My level of being terrible at life officially reached a new high this morning.


Text from Gigi: 
OMG hahah what happened?
Text from Molly:
Oh God. What did you accomplish this time?

Response from Jean:
Let's just say I just made the most-expensive Target trip ever and I need to figure out how I'm going to explain why my left headlight is dangling out of my car to my father. 

.................................................

Last spring, I discovered a Target in the neighborhood where I nanny. In an attempt to be frugal, I went there to pick up a couple toiletries instead of paying double the price in the city. Two hours and $260 later, I left Target in a car filled with useless items. I told myself it was okay considering I no longer spent hundreds of dollars on clothes every weekend and deserved to treat myself one time.

The following Friday I needed toilet paper. My venture for toilet paper ended up another $200 Target spree.

The following Friday, I did it again.

The Target sprees continued. Each time, I told myself it would be the last. After a few months, I managed to keep the sprees under $80. One time, I even successfully walked out of the store spending less than $10.

I have a 45 minute break between going from one family I work for to the next on Fridays. Last Friday, before going to my second job, I rushed to Target for new sheets.

On my drive there, I thought about how badly I wanted a new camera. Deciding I wouldn't dare ask for a $500 birthday gift from anyone else, I would buy one for myself. In a whirl of excitement, I envisioned myself sitting at my computer entering my credit card info for a Canon EOS Rebel T3 18-55mm Digital SLR Camera. I pulled into the Target parking lot and imagined the pure joy I'd experience the day my camera arrived.

Then I hit a parked car.

This is the camera I no longer am buying for myself. 

I'm not really sure how I hit, or shall I say bumped the parked car.

Well, I kind of know what happened. I was really excited and in a hurry and I guess I inaccurately estimated the distance between my tiny 1994 Celica and the gargantuan SUV parked next to the empty spot I was pulling into.

I bumped the car lightly, luckily nothing happened to the SUV and no one saw me. Even though the other car remained undamaged, I drove to the back of the parking lot and parked in a corner. I assumed my car probably had a small dent from the bump.

As a teenager, my brother once told me, "Only fools assume."

I got out of my car to find my left headlight dangling out of a large crack in my bumper. I couldn't believe my eyes. I swear, that SUV must have been built with some sort of military strength destroyer steel.

This is why I can't have nice things.

I started to panic. A few years ago, I probably would have called my mom crying, but after so many life failures, I can only laugh at myself. Instead of putting my parents through the news of my latest failure and enduring another lecture of disappointment, I went into Target to get myself some new sheets.

I was sort of worried I'd somehow get in trouble, even though the other car wasn't damaged. I really needed new sheets though, so I decided I'd just make it speedy in Target and pay in cash. If I made the trip quick and didn't leave a money trail, I'd be in the clear.

I quickly scurried through Target...for half an hour. The other car was gone when I exited the store. My car was broken. On the bright side, I didn't hurt anyone/anything else or get yelled at and I got myself new sheets, yogurt, a three-pack of deodorant, shaving cream, carrots, some new hand towels and a Starbucks Skinny Mocha for under $60 and made it to my next job on time!

Everything was going to be alright.

Later that day, I entertained friends with the story. I was terrified of the moment I told my parents, but everyone else found it hilarious so I didn't worry too much.

The next day, my roommate Alex and I went to the laundromat. While Alex waited for his clothes to finish, I carried a giant pile of folded blankets out to my car. As I approached my car, a giant SUV backed into it, knocking off the faceplate thing-a-ma-jig and further shattering my bumper.

I stood in the middle of the street next to my car (kind of waiting for someone to just run me over and end it all), jaw dropped, holding a giant pile of blankets as the culprit drove away.

I picked up the little Celica thing-a-ma-jig and ran into the laundromat to tell Alex.

"Well, did you get the license plate number?"

Of course not.

So there I was, sitting in a laundromat, holding a piece of my car, sort of laughing and sort of hating myself (and completely dreading my father finding out).

The thing-a-ma-jig now hangs on my bedroom wall as a reminder of how terrible I am at life. 

...a few days later, I went to Target for a couple items. When I got home and unpacked the 12 items I purchased, I discovered I had left the two items I went to Target for at the register. I think I need to stop going there. 

"Jean, I don't know how else to say this and I don't want to offend you, but I think you're just not good...at life." -My best friend, Gigi

Saturday September 10th, 2011 around 12:54pm, I called my mom crying while frantically chasing cabs on Union Avenue in the rain. My first class of the semester was beginning in six minutes. Unfortunately, I failed to remember the L train wasn't running and I couldn't get a cab for my life.

Yes, as a 24-year-old adult, I stood on the streets of Brooklyn crying to my mother because I was going to miss a class and I didn't want my teacher to think I was a poor student.

Twenty minutes later, I called my brother James regaling him with the morning's events while intermittently sobbing and laughing.

Then I called my best friend from home, Gigi and did the same thing.

Then I called my mom again...and then my brother once more.

Along with lamenting about missing my class, I also shared some other events of that week. Such events included (but weren't limited to):

• Flying off a treadmill and twisting my ankle because I got distracted looking at a mirror.
• Having an anxiety attack at a general eye exam, causing the doctor to end the exam halfway through.
• Getting wounded by a bag of pretzels and suffering a large battle scar on my face because I followed my friend's instructions to, "close your eyes and catch the surprise I brought you."
• Almost dropping my air conditioner out my 4th floor window, then spilling water all over my bed in a struggle to pull it back in.
• Getting kicked off my own bed by two of my "best friends" after letting them wear my clothes, getting a creep kicked out of a bar for them, watching them eat my beloved order of calamari and being nicknamed "Mama Jean" by a doorman for taking care of them all night. This was the same night I endured a bag of pretzels to the face. 
• Trying to bathe without a shower and having poodle hair for a week.
• Dropping a bookshelf on my computer.
• Losing sleep for days due to a Law & Order: SVU addiction.

After discussing my ridiculous existence with my mother, brother and best friend, the four of us concluded, I am not good at life. 


I'm not really sure what's wrong with me.

I consider myself relatively intelligent. I make good money. I'm fairly attractive. I have a great apartment in arguably one of the world's greatest cities. I have friends. I don't have any daddy issues. I've never been fired from a job. I've always done well in school. I don't do hard drugs.

I seem to be doing pretty well in the grand scheme of life.

I'm just incompetent when it comes to simple daily tasks. I apparently lack the ability to function like a normal adult. I legitimately cannot go more than an hour without entirely humiliating myself, putting myself in the most-awkward situation possible, breaking something, physically hurting myself or ruining something for myself and/or others.

I wind up in absurd, unfortunate circumstances on a daily basis and 99% of the time, it's due to my own actions. It's as if I take some sort of sick pleasure out of making my life unnecessarily difficult and embarrassing.

Most people try to keep their embarrassing moments private. I find it amusing to share the pathetic facts of my shameful existence.

Months ago, when I discussed my lack of skill in the art of living on that fateful Saturday afternoon, Gigi told me I should start a blog about it. I planned to start it that day, then the next, then the next and so on...but I was too occupied embarrassing myself the next five months to sit down and do it.

I made a New Year's resolution to "stop being so bad at life." I achieved three semi-functional days before spending a day at the laundromat washing cat urine out of all my ex-boyfriend's clothes because I accidentally locked my cat in my bedroom.

I turn 25 in less than two months. I'm on the verge of being a quarter-century old and my inability to function as a normal human are at an all-time high.

We all thought God didn't make any mistakes. Then Jean Taylor came into existence and proved us all wrong...