For years now I’ve kept a list of dumb skills I possess. It’s a list of things I am very good at, but things that have no practical application whatsoever. You may call that hubris. I call it my useless résumé.
[Editor’s note: When Kyle told me he was writing this, I called him a “Mediocre White Man.”]
This imaginary CV earned its name because it’s filled with talents that could never conceivably be included on a useful résumé. They have absolutely no benefit to any potential employer, and little to no benefit to anyone but myself in my day-to-day life as a human being. Nonetheless, they are skills I have. Skills I’ve come to appreciate. Skills I take pride in. And they are skills I have chosen to keep track of, ridiculous though that may be.
An example of such a skill: I am very good at bringing in all the groceries from the car in a single trip. If I had to classify my completist-grocery-carrying ability, I would place it somewhere between elite and god-level. I say this not to blaspheme, but after 33+ years of seeing other folks unload their groceries, I’ve yet to see anyone at (or even close to) my level. I’m not saying I’m peerless. I’m just saying I’ve yet to meet a peer.
To be perfectly honest, this skill could very easily be classified as stubbornness, because that’s really all it is. I’m very stubborn in all facets of my life. But I’m particularly stubborn about groceries. I just don’t see the point in making more than one trip to get them. That’s not how I choose to spend my time. That’s not how I choose to get my steps in.
So I load myself up like a pack mule, carefully distributing the weight between hands, making sure the squishable and breakable items are layered on top of the non-squishable and non-breakable items, and I make my goddamn way from the car to the kitchen.
I can’t be entirely sure what I look like doing this, as I’ve never seen video of the act, but I have to imagine that sometimes, during a really big haul, I look a bit like a penguin carrying a piano, waddling beneath the immense weight of entirely too many bags. But I love it. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I finally make it to the drop zone and slowly lower the load ever so gently to the tile floor, the satisfaction I feel is nearly unmatched.
Other skills on my useless résumé include: an inane ability to quickly calculate the perfect tip on a check (regardless of how drunk I might be); arguing with customer service representatives, either in person or over the phone (I’ve long thought of starting a Customer Service Service where I handle people’s customer service complaints for them because I enjoy it so much); and grabbing a truly unholy and embarrassing amount of napkins at takeout restaurants (if you grab the correct number of napkins, sorry, but you’re a cop).
My favorite one, though—the one I hold even more dearly and take more pride in than the grocery thing—is my ability to carry beers without spilling them. Glasses, cups, bottles, cans: it makes no difference. Up stairs, down stairs, through crowds, I find a way. If carrying beers were an Olympic event, I’d have a whole room full of medals.
I once carried four 20-ounce cups, each brimming with meniscus, all the way down to the front row at a baseball game without losing a single drop. (Granted, no child ran into me along the way.) It was a feat so impressive that the strangers in the second row took it upon themselves to give me a standing ovation.
But here’s the thing: I recently saw something even more impressive.
During Game 5 of the World Series, Houston Astros left fielder Yordan Álvarez hit a home run. That’s not the impressive part. According to Statcast, the ball left Álvarez’s bat at 106.4 miles per hour at a launch angle of 19 degrees and traveled a projected distance of 405 feet. That’s still not the impressive part. At the end of that 405 feet, the ball smacked into the chest of a man carrying two Bud Light tall boys and, dear reader, the man did not spill a drop. NOT A SINGLE DROP. That’s incredibly impressive.
Now, I take pride in not spilling beer in an extremely Big Lebowksi “careful man, there’s a beverage here” kind of way. I’m dedicated to it. It’s part of my persona. But this man—THIS MAN—takes that pride and dedication to a new level. This man’s name is Jeff Adams and I would like to take a moment to express my admiration for him.
They say true love is your soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another. True love is not what I feel for Jeff Adams, exactly, but my soul was moved when I saw him sacrifice his body to save his beer. And in a way, my stubbornness recognized its counterpoint in another. Because what he did was a wildly, dangerously stubborn act.
It would’ve been much easier for Jeff to just drop his beers and catch that home run ball. IT’S THE WORLD SERIES. How many people on this planet even have the opportunity to catch a World Series ball? But he didn’t drop his beers. He looked at that ball against the night sky, hurtling directly at him, he stared fate directly in the eye, and he said, “NAY. I shan’t be relieved of these beers quite yet. I shall have my cake and eat it, too.” And so he did.
That gives me hope. Hope that, one day, maybe my stubbornness will be recognized and revered and proven valuable. And that one day, maybe those talents on my useless résumé will actually be useful after all.
