Behold my many talents

Delusionally gifted

Most women are taught from birth (not by their parents or teachers but by some kind of strange historical osmosis), to be self-deprecating and humble. It’s more likeable, making it easier to get by in a world which hates us. I’m no different. The longer we go on like this, the more insecure we become right?

Except…there are secretly things I think I am, or could be, incredible at. I am usually pathetically insecure in almost every aspect of my life, but I have these wild confidence spurts, brief moments of almost total delusion, where I think I am the total best. Reading this back, I fear I am not making myself entirely clear. Let me give you some examples.

At 14 I pronounced - perfectly seriously - that I was “facially perfect.” This was a result of *one* good photo from which I decided that my features were entirely as God intended all features to be. My friends mocked me endlessly for this, and I was entirely unapologetic. This insane and very specific belief carried me through a few hairy teenage years when I hated everything else about myself. When I walked down Oxford Street, I was always surprised that no model scout popped out of the crowd to shove their card into my hands and beg me to call them. It disappeared around 16, and I miss it to this day.

When I was a kid, I thought perhaps I was destined to be a singer. When I sang, my voice (to me) sounded like an angel had come down from heaven and blessed the world with her voice. I was a siren, calling in the sailors who were driven wild by my dulcet tones. Then I tried out for the local kid’s choir and was roundly rejected. For many years, I assumed this was because my voice would overshadow the other children and I acquired an air of benevolent forgiveness for everyone involved. That is, until I met my husband who heard me sing and informed me, without any of the jealousy I assumed people had when they heard me hit the high notes, that I was in fact, tone deaf. I then recorded myself singing a Cure song (just like heaven, if you’re asking) and immediately crashed down to earth. I’d repel sailors. An angel would throw their harp at my head in pain. I still sing, but on my own and away from the dog, who gets anxious when I do it.

I sometimes secretly think I might be an amazing dancer. When I got divorced, my sister bought us hip hop dance lessons to cheer me up. It was a six week course, and I walked into that studio wearing an outfit that would’ve killed in a video circa 1997 you’d order up on The Box. We danced to an Usher song (caught up, a banger), learning each step slowly and going over and over them in tiny increments. By the time we’d put half the dance together, a fifteen year old behind us couldn’t control her laughter anymore. It wasn’t even mean laughter, it was just a helpless gush of giggles which she could no longer hold in as we sidestepped and bumped into each other while trying to look sexy. We finished the course but we never finished the full dance. But maybe if I was just given another song, or put some mean Timberland boots on, maybe then I’d shine!

I have no knowledge of DIY. I do not even know how to use a drill. In an apocalypse, the group will tolerate me for a total of three days before casting me out to be eaten by the zombies/killed by falling asteroids (take your pick of inevitable apocalypse options). But I want to be a handy person. I believe I could be brilliant at it. Occasionally, this belief tips over into foolish action and I’ll test it out with gay abandon. My bath needed re-grouting, and this seemed like a blessed sign to do it myself. Off I went to buy supplies, giddy in my own power. The grout applier broke the moment I opened it, but I was still confident! I retrieved a cake piper from the kitchen and decanted the grout into this flimsy plastic bag made for French fancies. Freehand baby! It would be perfect, all those losers doing it the ‘proper’ way would gaze at my work and weep with jealousy. The result looked like I’d smeared icing all over the tub using my foot. I moved out of that flat six months later, having not used the bath once since my grand effort.

And some things I haven’t tried, but sometimes delude myself into thinking I’d be great at -

I think I could fly a plane. Not a big jumbo, just a little one, maybe even just one of those gliders. I imagine myself doing loop de loops, crowds on the ground going nuts for my casual flair. I would shit my pants if someone offered me the chance to do this. Just shit my pants and run away. But in my mind, I’m wearing a little peaked pilots hat and saluting as I taxi down the runway. Possibly smoking a small and very chic cigar.

On a boat which I bet I could…drive?

I believe I could fluently learn another language merely because I have mastered a few sentences in Italian. In fact, in an almost staggeringly mad way, I sometimes used to convince myself I was Italian when I was on holiday. I’d say a few words, flick my hand a certain way, order an espresso and never an expresso and think I’d nailed it. I’m currently on my second Italian lesson and have had all my fantasies brutally bashed in.

I think I could tame a fox just through intuition and my innate Dr Doolittle talent.

I am sure I could highlight my own hair with the right professional tools if I wanted to.

I reckon if just given a chance, I could grow a garden like you’ve never seen. A beautiful jungle, an oasis in the desert. I’ve never actually done any real gardening and find it hard to keep even the hardiest of plants alive but I could.

One day, I’ll complete a perfect handstand without a single moment of practice.

I don’t think I’m a narcissist (but if I was, I’d be the best one), I just enjoy these moments of mad faith in myself, when really I’m incredibly middling at most things. Please tell me you have similar delusions, I know you do. I bet at least one of you thinks you could be a ballet dancer if only someone would give you a shot.