There are two things in the world I cannot do.
I am highly accomplished. I am tenacious and confident. I have walked on five continents.
I cannot throw a Frisbee.
I can dance. I can sing a little. I can pick out a song on the piano. I can bowl. I can play volleyball, basketball, soccer. I can throw darts, I can play pool. I ran Track in high school. I can even throw a discus.
I cannot throw a Frisbee.
I love heights. I’ve been skydiving. I am afraid of the water, but I am an accomplished SCUBA diver. I love to hike, to camp, to play on the beach. I like to run and to swim, though I’m not very good at either of them.
I cannot throw a Frisbee.
I can draw, I can write, I can lead, I can follow. I can solve puzzles, untangle necklaces, beat you at card games. I can care for children, I can settle disputes. I can say no. I can say yes. I make an equally good martini as strawberry-rhubarb pie. I almost always know which utensil to use.
I can make speeches. I can give toasts. I can bring the best out in people.
I am a good friend. A good sister. A good aunt. I volunteer. I tithe.
And yet, there are two things I cannot do: I cannot throw a Frisbee.
And I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.
Yes, I come from a broken home. Many times over. Yes, I grew up without my father. Yes, my mother was neglectful and/or abusive.
I can do almost anything. Well. I’ve even been in therapy so I could do everything better. I cannot be denied the things I truly want to do. And still:
I cannot fall in love with The Right Man.
I have dated accomplished musicians, painters, athletes, computer whizzes. Combinations of all of the above. Almost all of them have spoken multiple languages. They have all been well educated, well read. Smart, funny, handsome, charming. Passionate. They’ve all been inherently wrong for me. I’ve loved them all ruthlessly.
I will never be able to throw a Frisbee. I just can’t do it. I can’t make my hand do what it needs to do. I clutch at it clumsily. It whips hard and then slams into the ground. And then it bounces and, ultimately, rolls far away. Sometimes I just watch it go. Sometimes I chase after it, embarrassed. And then I walk away apologetically after gently refusing a lesson. Thank you, really, but it won’t help. Trust me.
Let’s play a different game, shall we?