Let’s All Try Doing Something Badly

I’ve decided the best way to combat feeling old and irrelevant is to do something that makes me feel young again.

Last weekend, it was ice skating.

I should mention that my daughter returned to campus yesterday after a month of Christmas break, and I am pouting. It’s endlessly unfair that my girl has to live far away from me in order to become an adult. Why can’t she park next to me on the sofa forever, eating popcorn and crocheting sweaters while we watch cheesy Hallmark movies? Could this not also be an effective route to maturity and responsible citizenship?

Of course not. So off she goes, and I’m left here feeling like a sappy old lady without a BFF.

Which means it’s time for me to get a life. Or at least remember that I have one.

I love my work. I’m still actively parenting – our younger daughter is still at home. I have a great marriage and two dogs to nurture. I’m thankful for a FULL life already established.

But I’m also in a rut.

My college kid calls it “expert adulting.”

She, at age 18, is a “baby adult.” She’s learning how to navigate financial paperwork and oil changes and career training – all the facets of being a grown-up that we “expert adults” have been perfecting for years.

And that, I’ve realized, is the problem – with us, the experts.

We’re so dang good at everything.

It’s boring.

At this stage in life, most of us have figured out our God-given skills and how to pursue our passions. Some of us are even nearing retirement, ready to pursue more interests beyond our careers. We’ve spent decades honing our talents and building our communities.

To the point where we forget what it’s like to be a beginner.

Perhaps, if we’re honest, we even deliberately resist doing anything we’re not good at. Because we don’t ENJOY being a beginner.

That’s my story.

And it is the definition of digging a rut.

So. A few days ago, I decided to break out of it.

And I chose to be spectacularly bad at something.

Ice skating.

We planned a family outing to the adorable local skating rink, complete with outdoor fire pits and a hot chocolate cafe. It’s the kind of scenery that screams “quaint seasonal fun” as if everyone living in snowy climates is born knowing how to balance their weight on knife blades while dancing over a block of ice. And indeed, everyone there did seem to know how to accomplish this feat, except for me.

My 18-year-old laced up her rental skates and went gliding around the edge of the rink like she was waltzing down the sidewalk, no hesitation, no wobbling, no shame.

I, on the other hand, grasped the railing for dear life and spent the first half hour attempting to maneuver around toddlers without falling flat on my face. I made a little progress, pushing off my toe picks every so often to scoot forward a few feet, then a few feet more, trying to keep up with my daughter so we could maintain a conversation. (Yes, I googled “toe picks.”) She had to stop and wait for me every five minutes but we eventually found a rhythm.

Point is, I am NOT an expert skater. I’ve only worn ice skates a handful of times in my life, and my skills don’t get better with age.

But last weekend, I skated anyway. And I loved it.

The fresh air was exhilarating. Focusing on an unfamiliar skill was good for my body and soul. And the gratitude I felt being able to explore a new activity with my beloved people alongside – or, ok, a few yards ahead, waiting for me to catch up – was refreshing both mentally and emotionally.

Until I wiped out and bruised both my knees.

Embarrassing? Not really. It was bound to happen. And one of the perks of my “old lady” status is that I don’t care anymore what people think. So I laughed at myself, apologized to my daughter for nearly taking her down with me, and wisely exited the rink for a cocoa break before I could do more serious damage.

Later that evening, while I stretched out on the couch with ice packs strapped to my legs, my heart clenched in anticipation of the next morning: my sweet girl’s departure back to school. Another fresh semester to learn and grow. And I realized – I want to keep learning and growing, too. It stinks to be the mom left behind, and yet my college kid’s absence is also an invitation to invest the time I’d otherwise spend with her on myself.

We’re not done yet, ladies.

Let’s try new things. Learn new lessons. Gain new skills. That is part of the joy of life on earth, and maybe we’ve just forgotten. The closer we got to “expert adult” status, the further we strayed from the benefits of discovery.

In that regard, I want to be more like my kids.

"Let the wise listen and add to their learning, and let the discerning get guidance," (Proverbs 1:5).

Let’s give ourselves permission to be bad at something. To wobble and fall if we have to, so we can experience the victory of getting back up again.

No more “expert adults,” amen?

I’m going to keep growing up for as long as I can.