The term “winging it” for me has been more of a life ethos I fell into for the sheer reasons of survival. When you’re not particularly bright and naive as a box full of puppies, a certain skill set is developed in order to manage in society.
A perfect example is the brilliant Stath Lets Flats and the hilarious AF sibling duo Stath (Jamie Demetriou) and Sophie (Natasia Demetriou). These not-so-clever humans scrape through life blissfully unawares of how thick and fumbly they actually are. It’s an admirable formula, albeit a fictional one.
Thankfully, I’m not quite at that level of absurd silliness, though I have certainly known people who literally could have been modelled off them. Dimness thrivers.
I happened to be one of those kids who didn’t quite get things as quickly as my peers. It might be argued it’s a disadvantage to not comprehend life as rapidly as others and each year I wished every birthday wish away hoping I would be gifted with better smarts, better math skills and an upgrade in running. Everything I feared and was slow at.
None of them came true. Bastard, bullshit birthday wishing fairy.
Instead, I developed techniques to deal with shit in the most efficient and subtle way possible to at least appear to function like everyone else, so as not to draw attention to my truth, nor constantly look like a dick. I’ve never considered this a con, or a lie, or deceitful, but the exposure of how truly thick I actually am – was always cause for anxiety.
It’s not pretending to be something you’re not… it’s not even faking it till you make it. It’s comprehending the absolute basics, having a crack and crossing your fingers you can pull off whatever task you’re attempting to succeed at without being exposed. Aka – winging it.
While this is a stellar skill to have that enables one to move through life with a false sense of perpetual luck – I’m over winging it. I honestly thought at this point of life I would have well and truly shelved my wings and was at the knowing it, navigating it successfully stage.
I have JUST edited the final touches on So You Are… Pregnant! and am even now questioning the writing style, the four gazillion mistakes, the shit formatting, the lack of paragraphs due to lack of e-space and general lack of clue. I’m even doubting if I should tackle the self-publishing thing at all and letting every one of those doubts fill my already overloaded head.
It’s all very, very boo-bloody-hoo, though not completely doom and gloom. I signed up to Ingram Spark. I sorted out my Google Play account. I did stuff. I released the wings. Yay.
And now – as I typically do when processing overthinking trivial crap – I flashback:
In 1983 one of my favourite shows to watch with my Dad was The Greatest American Hero. Of course I related. He was gawky, he was unco and he just wanted to do good. I loved it so much that I somehow managed to convince our teacher to let us sing the theme song for a class assembly (I also convinced another lot of teachers a few years later to let us sing The Henderson Kids closing credits theme song – Carry On. Oh to channel those mini-wings of the eighties.).
It was a success.
Peers enjoyed singing it. Everyone in the audience knew the song and sang and smiled. It brought people joy. My winging it about literal wings had paid off.
But it wasn’t a typical wing. It was a win. A success because I tapped into what I knew. My strengths. Creativity. The arts. All that I adored.
1984 me got it. She wung it.
I’m tapping back into it.
That blissful oblivion of not being paranoid of your short comings.
Those Stath and Soph vibes.
#wingon #facethewing #embracethewung #justgettheeffonwithityouwingingwuss