Aspirations Of Mediocrity

Jane of all trades, master of none  

- Kristin Butcher

LIKE MOST KIDS, I ONCE YEARNED TO BE great. I wanted to earn the best grade on the test and pitch the most no-hitters. I wanted to be faster than the tall kids and tougher than the small kids. I wanted to win the egg toss fair and square, and I had the yolk stained Keds to prove it.

The idolization of greatness is fully ingrained well before we scratch and sniff our first “Grape Job!” sticker in grade school. After all, it feels good to win. In a world where success is as nebulous as it is revered, winning something—anything—is the closest metric we have to demonstrable awesomeness. That shiny medal is proof we performed a little bit better than anyone else. It’s tangible evidence that we really did do a ‘grape job,’ and not only according to people who are genetically predisposed to think we’re better than we actually are.

These days, the truth is that I don’t have time to bother with being at the top of the pack. Slowly, my desire for grandeur slipped away under the cloak of darkness as blank calendar pages were covered with Sharpie-marker scrawlings of deadlines, appointments and annoyingly adult responsibilities.

Now, I strive for something bigger than greatness. I strive for mediocrity, and when I achieve the lofty designation of being ‘okayish’ at something, I pop up a camp chair on the 50-yard line between greatness and suckitude. That line is my home. It’s where I belong and it’s where I plan to stay.

I’m a middle-of-the-road home mechanic capable of fixing slightly more things than I break. As a rider, I’m on the leading edge of mediocrity and—not to brag—but last weekend I finally attained my lifelong goal of becoming fairly unimpressive at one-handed juggling.