The Ministry of Failure

I'm officially a member of the Ministry of Failure.  Please follow along as I tell you why.

I feel my story speaks for itself.  Not anyone can join the Ministry of Failure.  Surely not perfectionist.  Surely not self-help gurus who know every concoction to ail thyroids and throbbing muscles, the TV doctors who can bend and twist their way into our lives, like some yoga pick-pocket.  Snooty know-it-alls are also not invited.  The Ministry of Failure only takes the best.

I began my application process early.  Among the several elementary schools I attended, several incidents come to mind.  I remember Magrill Elementary, fourth grade.  My first week of recess I threw a pine cone at some girls' head.  Nice first impression.  No one picked me for kickball games.  Third grade was brutal.  Kids actually picked each others' teams based on height, popularity and size.  I was short, unpopular and fat.  Just wearing skin-tight parachute pants should be reason enough to grant admission into the Ministry.  Perhaps I could sing my x-rated rendition of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" I developed while my classwork was being avoided?  Or perhaps I could sign something using my mom's signature like I tried on my report card?

 If my early years do not convince you that I belong in the Ministry, perhaps my intermediate years will do.  My seventh grade year was perhaps my biggest predictor of failure to come.  After joining football to help me gain friends, I ended up walking to and from school as my bus passed with everyone yelling at me through the window and giving me the finger.  The highlight of my day was walking down by the creek to see turtles scurrying away from the scent of failure I was emitting.

 Junior high years was one failure after another.  My sixth grade year consisted of various comedic episodes that were simply re-aired like some bad tv show.  Find dad's porn stash, hide porn in vacant "safe house", smoke cigarettes with seventh grade neighbors, hide cigarettes, tease my sister, repeat.  My parents separated that year which is a prerequisite for the Ministry application, and I made matters worse by shooting a kid in the leg with a bb gun at the bus stop.  The principal of my junior high had enough of me.  Earlier in the year I bought myself a week's worth of in-school detention for passing notes in AFTER school detention with disparaging words about his toupee.  So, sending me for expulsion for the remaining school year was like giving out candy.

High school was four years of blurry ineptitude.  Failed algebra as a freshman, transferred schools because I was terrified of anyone brown (it's scary to be around too much machismo and latina-girl hairspray).  My biggest moment of failure occurred during my senior year of high school, homecoming dance.  I knew my date since junior high and all her friends had me convinced I should ask her out.  She said yes and we had a date.  Showed up at her house and noticed her friend was there.  So were two guys.  So we went to dinner, the dance, and this other guy, perhaps a boyfriend she didn't want to tell me about, tagged along.  After dinner, she parked in a car with him while I chilled in the backseat of her friend's car.  It was the longest night of my life.  Maybe two people know about that night.

My dormant years before graduating and marrying were slow and confusing.  Did you know my ex girlfriend was pregnant before I met her?  No?  What about dropping out of community college?  Perhaps it was coming home from working the night shift at the toll road (where I spent my time reading dragon-fantasy novels, cranked loudly to classic rock and sports radio and ate constantly) to an empty house, calling 1-888 numbers for "friendship", eating again and sleeping until the next shift began.  I pitted family members against one another.  I cursed my grandmother for enabling me to live like I wanted by cursed her for cleaning my room and throwing my mistakes at my mother.  I shuttled between getting kicked out of my dad's house, my uncle's house, was made fun of by my mom and step-dad when I told them I was moving out into an apartment with three girls from work.

The rest of my blogs can catch you up from there.  And so it's been, working towards the Ministry of Failure.  But one thing I have been learning the hard way lately, is that we weren't made for perfection.  We were made human.  Granted, we had the ability to be perfect.  One apple.  One bite.  Welcome, sin.  We've all been herding ourselves into the Ministry of Failure ever since.  It's only the contestant-reality shows that award talent which reminds us that people can be perfect by having one gift.  Dr. Phil reminds us we are perfect through tears, audience applause and commercial breaks.  Food makes us feel perfect too.

We all fail.  I have and will fail better than some.  But all these stories are mine.  I own them.  I have a unique copyright with my past that will not let go.  God loves our pasts.  He loves our future more because he loves us too much to let us stay the same.  These past few weeks have been a start.  2 bread sticks with lunch instead of 6.  Salad dinners.  No stops for donut holes.  Fruit snacking at night.  Did I mention the Ministry of Failure has a great buffet?  No guilt, no worry.  It's the best food I've had in years.