Your problem is obvious

This morning, I pulled on my hoodie . . . backwards. My error was immediately apparent. I noticed right after I got my glasses and hat on, and then walked into a doorpost. For most problems, the error is not immediately apparent. I am grateful for errors that are both (1) immediately apparent, and (2) easy to correct.

I have mentioned that I applaud people who suck at things if they persevere. It bears repeating that being terrible in public takes moral courage. Also, it is worthy of great admiration. We have a superabundance of highly talented people. Exhibiting those talents is commonplace. I gravitate toward talent-less people who try, fail, learn, and try again.

Boxing. I truly suck at boxing. I can prove that statement. I have not mastered operating my large body gracefully. When I try to dance, for example, they don't call it dancing.

My fabulous wife Brenda signed us up at a boxing gym last summer. I was boxing-curious. I got some gloves and started working the heavy bag. If you haven't tried it, you should. It's an amazing workout. Similar to swimming or rowing, it works both the upper and lower body at the same time. Unlike swimming or rowing, it focuses on building up the abdominal and oblique muscles. Like all activity, it gives you something else to think about while your body is complaining about fatigue.

Boxing is not hitting, punching, or otherwise clobbering an opponent. Boxing is precision, body control, and conditioning. It does tap into something neolithic -- way down deep in the psyche. It is a pleasure to watch, once you know what you are watching. It would be easy to look at boxers and see two muscular people abusing each other like the primates at the beginning of "2001: A Space Odyssey." Boxing and assault are different things. The latter is about pummeling another person into submission. The former is doing that with grace, style, strategy, and within a highly restrictive set of rules. Like most martial arts, if two experts are evenly matched, they would only get hit if they wanted that to happen as part of some bigger strategy.

That's Larry teaching me to box. Larry has an infinite amount of patience, near as I can tell. A few months ago, Larry took me on as a "project." Larry underestimated the scope of this project . . . by a large measure. But, as I said, Larry has lots of patience; which he will need while training me. After perhaps six months of weekly work, I can throw a three-punch combination (jab, cross, hook). After I catch my breath, I can do that combination again.

Disclosing what should be obvious, my version of boxing does not involve getting hit. I work the heavy bag, and punch other people's hands. If I wanted a full-scale ass-kicking, I would just go to work. Real boxing involves the possibility of getting hit -- so I'm not actually boxing. Even so, I suck at it.

My sparring partner in last night's class said, "You should probably work on your hook, or else work on pretty much everything." He was annoyed with me. I was a lame partner, and he is very skilled. For him, it was frustrating. For me, it was humiliating; humiliating in the sense that I had no choice but to embrace my lack of skill and talent. I became more humble because it was unavoidable, not because of some noble, cerebral desire to become humble.

That's my main point: there is a difference between authentic humility and assuming fabricated humility. Authentic humility is not debatable. My boxing partner's face said it all: he knew I sucked and I was hindering his training. That taps into something primal for me: the fear of being humiliated. I think the sequence is (1) I lack talent, (2) and all my exertions haven't improved my skills. (3) My peers notice my deficiencies. (4) This will lead to being ejected from the tribe, which means (5) I will starve to death in isolation and ignominy. That's primal. That's authentic humility. Embrace it.

Back to my hoodie. Life is full of challenges which do not admit immediate results or effects. For example, the results of raising a child aren't apparent for years. When I write software, the really pernicious errors don't surface for weeks or months. When I put on my hoodie backwards, I almost immediately apprehended my error. Before I tried to drive to work, for example, I identified and corrected the error. When I throw a punch incorrectly, I know it immediately. That provides the luxury of immediately correcting errors. I imagine that if every error I made was immediately and obviously apparent, things in my imaginary world would be far less pleasant. I would have to admit an astonishing amount of error and shortcoming. But that's authentic humility; which I find desirable as a life-organizing principle.