The Great Failures of a First World Gal

Usually you only share your achievements and positive progress. Like me posting about finishing school. What you normally don't talk about are your failings. Cause who wants to memorize those? The problem is that once you look in from the outside you feel very shitty about yourself. All you see are people doing great things without knowing how many tries it took them to get there.

This post however is dedicated to all the diets that never started. The days you didn't go to the gym. The meals that consisted of chocolate & chips. The world championships of extreme couchpotatoing. The lost talent shows. The instruments turned into dusters. The places never visited. The unworn clothes. And every New Year's Resolution ever.

Here are the great failings of a modern-day-first-world young adult.

When I was in third grade my school offered a special program for the kids that had to endure afternoon lessons (not a normal thing in Germany). For a few bucks we drove to a nearby farm and were allowed to ride horses. This went on for two years in which someone gave me a complete set of riding gear. I already saw myself riding at the beach on the back of a horse and straight into the sunset.
After fourth grade the program ended but my lovely mother gave me a gift card for ten riding sessions. I was the happiest girl in the world. Surprisingly, I even continued the lessons afterwards making my mother not so happy coz dat shit's expensive.
Until one day I was a bit early and came to the training room to watch the girl currently riding there. Except that she didn't ride at all. She was lying on the floor screaming, her arm bent in a very unhealthy way. Our trainer explained to me that the construction side that was currently outside the stall scared the horse (the horse I'm riding too) and it threw her off. She broke her arm quite painfully and had to be flown to the hospital by a helicopter.
Needless to say that I quit horse riding after this incident. Funny thing is, a friend of mine knows that girl, she continued lessons as soon as her arm was healed. Fail.

Much professional
No riding at the beach on the back of a horse and straight into the sunset for me then. Nevermind, I already found a new passion. Ballet. Of course. I knew I was destined to become a great ballerina elegantly dancing her way into the hearts of her audience.
I took lessons at a dance school I was part of before as a majorette (Yes, I gave that up too). My group consisted of six girls. Although one of them left shortly after I started. I soon found out why. The other four girls knew each other since birth. They were the bestest of friends and every now and then another girl would join the group. They did their very best to diss those new girls out of the group. It worked on the girl before me and it worked on myself, too.
Sure, I could have continued at another school but I wasn't that great anyways and now convinced that all ballerinas are mean girls that make fun of other not so fit girls and rip their earrings out of their earlobes. (Yep, that actually happened to me). Fail.
Look at that form! Such talent.
You may know by now that I'm not a sporty person. At all.
Nonetheless and to my great dismay I had to participate every six months in something called Bundesjugendspiele. That word still puts me in a bad mood.
It was this huge event at which every elementary student had to perform certain exercises including parallel bars, a balance beam, rings, as well as group activities like football, relay race and other unnecessary boring shit. While you're failing at all of those things your friends and family are watching you from a tribune and at the end someone rates your fails and every one gets a certificate. One year I got a certificate for participating. I was furious. I was certain that every other year I got a certificate one level higher. Every one and their mother participated. I didn't need a certificate for that. It's not like I had a choice in the matter anyways. It made me so mad that every six months I had to do all that stupid stuff in front of the whole school failing terribly and all I got was a piece of paper reassuring me that I did all that stupid stuff. I cried and ripped the certificate apart to come home to a binder of earlier certificates all saying nothing more but that I participated. I never got any other certificate. I was wrong. I have always been this bad and now I had embarassed myself in front of my class mates too. Fail.
Focus on the left top corner. I was so pissed.
Those last three were all failings of my childhood and I feel like that doesn't really count. So here are two failings of my teenage years.

When I entered grammar school I was able to decide between learning French or English as a first foreign language. Without thinking twice I decided to go for French. Big mistake. Huge mistake.
Our first teacher was alright, she was really nice and I think I actually learned a thing or two. But I can't really say for sure because she left after a year.
Our next teacher was quite nice too but she spent one whole year of our lessons teaching us theatre scenes that we showed at the end of the year at a school event. We didn't learn anything else.
The third teacher wasn't too nice but he taught us a lot. He still gave me horrible grades but I felt like I could maybe actually speak French in a year or so.
My last French teacher was my German teacher at first. After two years of hating her during German lessons she came into the classroom after the summer holidays greeting us with a lovely: "I didn't want to see you again either." Now, I know that this woman can speak French. She lives French. She loves the language, the country, the people. So much so that she hates Americans. All of my four names are very much American. I can't say for sure that that's the reason she hated me but I do know she hated me. The whole class knew. Whenever she asked something no one (not even the girl whose mother tongue is French) could answer she'd always call my name. I told her in the most beautiful way possible that Je ne sais pas. She didn't care. She had me mumbling and stuttering whatever French words were stuck in my head for solid ten minutes before she continued with the lesson*. I hated French lessons. Every day I woke up and knew I had French that day I would spend all morning thinking about skipping. Whenever we stood in front of the class room waiting for our teacher I would hope that maybe she wouldn't come today. She mostly did though.
After six painful years I was finally able to drop out of that class. No more français pour moi. And no, I don't completely blame my teachers for my horrible French. A lot of my class mates speak perfect fluid French and continued the lessons in 11th grade. It's just that I probably need a 24/7 superfriendly tutor to learn that godforsaken language.
English however, the language I started learning two years after I started French, became my one true love. What a pearl of a language. Such sweet sounds easily rolling of my tongue. The most beautiful phrases. Easy-learning included. No more exceptions. No more complicated rules. No more accents. No more hours of guessing which article goes with which vocabulary. English is so much better than French.
It took me a second to decide which language to learn first. I regretted that decision for six years. Fail.

The last failing I wanna talk about today turned out to be not so much of a fail after all.
When I was around 14 years old, all of my friends started taking guitar lessons. Apparently that's some sort of initation rite every one has to go through. Like confirmations but for every one. I was quick to jump on that bandwagon (same with ballet and horse riding).
I rented a guitar for a month or so and my friend and I payed her mother's colleague to teach us how to play it. After a month I bought a guitar and every week we went to our lesson and promised to practice at home too (which I actually did sometimes). After a year my friend didn't have as much time anymore and her mother's colleague wasn't so keen on teaching us either and so eventually the lessons stopped. My guitar turned into a duster.
Until I finished school and suddenly had all of this free time on my hands. For a few weeks now I have been practicing again every day for an hour or so. Once I learned every thing out of the book our teacher made us buy, I started going online to look up chords for songs I want to learn. Currently I'm learning Sick of Losing Soulmates by Dodie Clark, which is going quite alright. So you see, not all of your failures have to end that way. Maybe it just wasn't the right time.
Me and Georgie Porgie III. about five hair colours ago.
(This turned into a cheesy and semi-motivational post after all. Not a fail then.)

*I'm scared to get sued so: All characters are completely made up and any relations to real persons are 100% unintentionally.

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