The failure artist

There’s Erdinger, doritos and monopoly on the table, as our wolfpack is playing amidst a cloud of happy smoke. While we recover our bodies from a day of snowboarding at a cozy Airbnb, a white landscape gazes at us from the window.

This was my first time snowboarding, and, as you can imagine, I’ve fallen. A lot.

I’ve tumbled like wet clothes on a washing machine. I’ve shaken like an astronaut on reentry. I’ve stirred like a martini, rolled like a Royce, felt my brain pole-dancing on its skull as I fell face first on a white sheet of snowish ice.

I’ve hit the softened ground face first, ass first, God knows what else first, and on those rare instances I flew a bit, as I twisted mid-air before the inevitable impact, I knew — this was one of the greatest days I’ve ever had.

Then I had to pull myself up. Getting up was the worst part, but hey. Soaked, in pain, tired as all hell, I abandoned my thoughts, staring at the spanish winter wonderland. A beautiful silence. Families, couples and friends skied and snowboarded past me with happy chatter and the occasional fall.

Someone said you should fail early, and fail often. I fail to remember his name.

Like Pulp Fiction’s Jules referring to his foot massaging skills, I’m the failure-fucking-master. I’ve failed in more things that I can count, and damn proud of that too. I’ve failed academically and professionally. Tenderly and epically. I’ve failed in sports, contests and friendships. My whole love life is a string of colorful failures.

Despite that, I wouldn’t have loved a lot of good things in this earthly wandering if I hadn’t predisposed myself to fail at them. Miserably, unapologetically, I’ve failed with a grandiosity you’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere.

I ended up enjoying it because I kinda noticed I’m actually quite good at it. Failure has become an unexpected art I’ve failed less and less at. How about that?

The thing is, if you enjoy failing, it’s a nice surprise when things start looking up. The stories aren’t as funny, not as good, but all of the journey starts making sense and you’re suddenly happier. That’s the plot twist.

Tomorrow will be a great day on the snow, full of sweet, delicious failure. Here’s to it.

Erdinger and happy smokes.

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