The Word We Love to Hate and Why We  Shouldn’t Hate it

Failure. What a word. The sound of it can deliver a quiver along a student’s spine, a quickening of heartbeat in the newly employed, and a vision of doom in the dreamer’s mind. We tiptoe delicately around Sir Failure, lest the hem of our pants brush the accursed cloak of this particular devil. We whisper nervously around him as well. Our words are soft yet jagged. We don’t want him to stalk and swallow us—because if he does, then we will be forced to crawl into the belly of humiliation and despair.

Like all other humans, I occasionally become lunch for Sir Failure. Once I am in his belly, I kick and scream and then fall into an exhausted heap of self-pity. Sir Failure chuckles heartily at my behavior. He likes that I finally surrendered to his exploits.

 

Sir Failure?

I am mentioning this, because it’s usually after the respite of the Chagim when our lives begin to settle, and Sir Failure materializes again. His eyes are constantly roaming the landscape for a daily feast. The New Year’s novel situations (a sweat-inducing college class, a demanding new job, or a budding yet fragile relationship) can often trigger thoughts of potential failure: What if Astro-Physics butchers my GPA? What if my employer pulls a fast Donald Trump on me and declares “You’re fired!” with a pointed finger and a blazing stare? What if I spill Coke on my date’s shirt, inadvertently insult his mother’s cooking, and then snort when I laugh?