Sounds easy enough.
Confidence has been both boon and bane in my existence.
I got every single job I ever had on the first interview.
I was asked (and went to) four high school proms.
I won a Student Council election when I put my name on the ballot on voting day.
I am that guy on the TV commercial that can do anything “because he slept at a Holiday Inn last night.”
I used to try everything, but sooner or later, you come to the realization that there are indeed limits to what your enthusiasm conjures and what your body is willing to give you.
You know, like that.
My problem is I need to NOT try dumbass physical things that deep-down I know damn well I can’t do.
I am of a mind that if I know something, I mean really know something, I will be the most confident proponent and a virtually unstoppable machine.
Ah, but although momma didn’t raise no cornpone, I still have my moments.
Like about ten or twelve years ago, we were living in the west valley of Phoenix, Arizona, and I was driving home from downtown Phoenix. As I entered our subdivision, I slowed as I could see three or four kids with planks and they were making a ramp. I pulled to the side and watched as this little guy who looked like he was ten years old took off and attempted to jump.
“No, man. You’ve got to get more speed and kick with your rear foot as you hit the ramp top. Then you’ll get air, and get vert.”
The little shit looked over at me like I just came from Mars.
“Oh yeah, old-timer, why don’t you get the balls to get over here and show us how to get vert?”
Karen is always telling me to realize my limitations, but unless I keep trying, the only downside is pain which can be managed.
But the pain of an insult by a smart-ass little ten-year old was just a bridge too far.
I remember being in excruciating pain in the rehab center where I had placed myself by ramping up, one last shred, and I slammed into the garage door of the little kid’s house.
I had to be taken to emergency and I went into surgery right away.
Four torn ligaments, a broken clavicle, a busted kneecap, and I can’t even show you the scars because they were on my leg they removed.
Karen was so pissed at me and I had to hear her pose the question “how old are you?” about a thousand times. She questioned my maturity, my sanity, just about everything, and there really wasn’t squat I could say about any of it.
I just bit my lip.
I got vert.