We are humans and we are dancers.
The other week, I had to ask one of my journalism professors for two deadline extensions. In the work force, that translates to “I hope you didn’t get too attached to your cubicle here.” I worked on one of those projects for four hours straight, only to have Final Cut Pro (I’m not above naming names) quit on me repeatedly. Therefore I had to run upstairs and knock on the door of my professor’s office in a flurry of desperation and explain how technology and Harry Styles were playing ping-pong with my sanity.
In the same day, I failed to show up for an advising meeting with a different professor who undoubtedly has better things to do than reschedule appointments with frazzled, exhausted students like yours truly. I signed up but had written down Friday instead of Thursday. After feeling like a moron I called my mom and she reminded me that we are human and make mistakes, and then she told me about the time where she mixed up an appointment by writing down Friday instead of Thursday too. This appointment just so happened to be my birth. The hospital called my mom on a Thursday back in November ‘94 asking where she was and when she said she was at home, they told her she was supposed to be at the hospital having her baby. My mom had written down Friday instead of Thursday by accident. (Explains why I’m perpetually running late to everything.)
I think that maybe I can be too hard on myself. “Perfection” spelled backward is “Nice try, kiddo.” Moral of the story is that we are all dancing humans and sometimes we miss a step or get off rhythm or completely fail to hear the music at all; but other times we move so beautifully that the mistakes are forgivable and sometimes irrelevant. The other moral of the story is that, considering my genetic predisposition to mixing up Thursdays and Fridays, I should probably only schedule important things on Wednesdays from here on out.