I dislike failure. Not failure in general, but failure as it relates to me. If someone else fails, it’s interesting; if someone fails hard, it’s really interesting; and if I dislike that person and they fail hard, it’s almost rewarding (terrible human being = me). But if I fail, it’s the apocalypse.

It doesn’t have to be anything spectacular that I fail at, it could be a new recipe I try or a glaringly obvious and inappropriate typo in a work email. My mind starts reeling with what a pathetic human being I am and how it’s remarkable I’m permitted to walk the earth with such an incredible stench of failure encompassing me and all within a 10-foot radius of my incredible suckiness as a person.

I do not fail at a flair for the dramatic. This, indeed, I excel at.

Often, I find that I’d rather not try at something rather than fail. One could argue that technically, not trying means an automatic fail. But even more technically, one could argue that you can’t fail at something you don’t try. Moot point?

The situation I am faced with now is the worst kind of failure—the kind where failure was the unexpected outcome.

Oh confidence. You tricked me!

Before I continue on, I confess, I’m wary to share my failure. To any other person who isn’t me or isn’t involved in my little world it will seem like peanuts. And I mean peanuts to someone who likes peanuts, salted and unsalted, and not to someone who is allergic.

I’m a self-proclaimed ballerina, and I use the word “ballerina” very liberally. Three years ago, I put on ballet slippers and have casually haunted dance studios ever since. Yes, at the overripe age of 30, I’m getting my repressed ballerina on.

When my husband, child, and two cats moved to a new, smaller community, I found the best way to dance was to join in on the middle and high school classes. Because of my immaturity, I fit right in with the tweens and teens.

These classes require exams. I like to work for something, so I participate in these evaluations. I’ve been trucking through the ballet levels, surpassing my “peers,” but apparently too fast. My most recent exam resulted with an “F.” The only class I ever got an “F” in was 9th grade geometry, and let’s be honest, when do I ever use geometry? Shapes are dumb.

On the bright side, if this can be considered a bright side, I’m in good company. Half my class failed the exam and the other half of the class received what is known as a “pass conditional.” Dancers that fail together, um, stay together? At least to repeat the level!

I feel the failure hits me harder because of my age in relation to my fellow dancers. It’s embarrassing. These girls look up to me even though they are mostly taller than me (figurative look ups, everyone!). I feel like an idol fallen from grace, a loser, a coming-of-age disappointment to a generation.

Pride takes the worst hit when faced with failure.

The emotional result is that I’m ashamed I ever undertook trying to make my ballet dreams come true. What can it achieve but heartache and sore toes? But it doesn’t stop there, it shakes my confidence in everything I want to do, and let me tell you, I have been bit by the project, entrepreneurial, creative bug and I need all the courage and chutzpah I can muster to make it happen.

The idea of failing stops me in my tracks.

So what’s a fallen ballerina to do? Quit and cut my losses?

My dance teacher told me the best analogy to get me through this difficult time. She said that if I have a car with a flat tire, I don’t puncture holes in the other three.

So, it’s time to get the spare out, drive to the nearest service station, and get everything rearing to go because the road trip isn’t over yet.

Here’s to further failures, successes, and all the mediocrity in between!

You tell it like it is, Yoda!

You tell it like it is, Yoda!


I got married! I grewed up!

So, my big news is that now there isn’t just Gingermermaid and little Gingerguppy, now there is a Mr. Gingermermaid! After the roller coaster of life that my significant other and I have been on since finding out less than two months ago about the little child implanted in my belly, we did a lot of thinking, soul-searching, and manic planning.

After attending a wedding of friends just days after finding out that I was pregnant, Mr. Gingermermaid (then just boyfriend) drunkenly said to me, “we should get married before the baby is born.”

I was flabbergasted. Aren’t boys supposed to be the ones who freak out about marriage and commitment? Instead, it was me. Maybe not so much for the commitment part, we were on this path anyway, but because I wanted a wedding and I wanted to be a size 2 bride (this is very difficult to do when 27 weeks pregnant).

I was opposed to the idea, and then I wasn’t. We talked about a courthouse wedding, which was the least appealing idea in the world to me. I may not have time to plan a party, and it may not be the time, but I am still wearing a foofy dress even if I have to buy it a store that’s called, “It’s Not Too Late!” I wanted family there, if nothing else, and I wanted a warm, comfortable setting (no offense District of Columbia courthouse, but you’ve been on the news far too many times in a negative manner for my liking).

The mister and I decided on, or rather, I created an idea that he jumped on board with because his choice in the matter was really that of a spectator and eventual participant, was to get married in my childhood home with only immediate family present. I even put the brakes on having my baby nephews in attendance (babies are so annoying).

My brother, sister, two nieces, mother, father, 2 Grandmas, 1 PopPop, and one short friend were represented for my side of the family. The boy’s mother, father, brother, grandfather represented the other side.

Keeping it a secret was quite difficult since none of us have filters in my family. We didn’t want any “surprise” drop-ins because we needed and wanted to keep it small. It’s more important for us to have a wee wedding and save the money for our future–child, home, shopping sprees–than on a day which would be wonderful, but only a day.

The day went perfectly. A few hiccups at the start, which made us realize that this is why people rehearse before a wedding no matter the size, but nevertheless, the missing flower girls turned up after taking a wrong turn and the rest went on surpassing our expectations.

We laughed, we cried, we smashed cake into each other’s faces. All in all, the best day ever only to be followed by a great many more fabulous days in a fabulous life with my hubby and little guppie.


Mr. and Mrs. Gingermermaid