I am 52 years old and have finally come to grips with something: I’m really not very good at a lot of stuff. Don’t get me wrong: This isn’t a plea for positive reinforcement. My self-esteem is fine. Great, actually. What I’m saying is just a simple statement of fact.  

My wife does our finances, because I suck at numbers. I play but remain dreadful at golf, guitar and Call of Duty. I’m into craft beer and would love to be “an expert,” but to be “an expert” you need a “good palate,” and my palate is so tone-deaf that this very magazine once got an angry call from a brewer criticizing me for the words I chose to compliment one of his beers. 

But I keep trying. Despite my age, I still play rec league basketball. When my 17-year-old came to one of my games for the first time in years, I was thrilled! Here was a chance to show him the old man still has it. Now, granted, there’s no way I’m going to have the athleticism of a 22-year-old but, truth is, when I was 22 I didn’t have the athleticism of a 22-year-old. My decline had a head start. So, in my five minutes of playing time, Sam got to see me miss a layup, shoot an air ball and get crossed over by a kid who shaves, at best, twice a month. After, Sam clapped me on the back and said, “That was great, Dad.” And for a moment, I felt better—maybe he’d noticed how much I hustled...? Naw. He explained he’d managed to get all my bad plays on video and posted them to Snapchat.  

Good for you, son. 

Another example: I took up running, thinking that maybe I’d be good at long distances because, honestly, the only skill required is to not stop. But in my fourth and likely last marathon, not only did I not come anywhere close to the goal time I’d set for myself: I was outrun—as God as my witness this is true—by a lady wearing Crocs. 

Even when I write, I don’t get it right: In last month’s Tom’s Take, I confidently stated Frank Sinatra’s “September Song” was written by Willie Nelson. Thank you Diane for pointing out that Willie did indeed cover the song, but it was written by Maxwell Anderson and Kurt Weill in 1938, when Willie would’ve been barely old enough to write his name. Note to self: Fact-check, dummy. 

Despite all that, I’m OK with being OK. No, seriously.  

Admittedly, for most of my life I didn’t want to acknowledge my flaws. Who does? But the last several years, I’ve come to grips with them, and, surprise, nothing caved in. My wife still loves me. Friends still call. Maybe it’s simple resignation, but I prefer to think I have accepted who I am. In some ways, I think recognizing my aptitude for ineptitude has given me insight: I now have a deeper appreciation for great musicians, athletes and smart people. I am more in awe of people who are good at creating, fixing or solving things. 

In some ways, I kinda feel sorry for people for whom everything comes easy. 

OK, no, that’s a lie. 

But I do think more of us need to accept imperfections—in ourselves and in others. As we near the end of what has been the most contentious political season in my memory, I think now would be a good time to keep in mind that none of us get it right all the time. Maybe if we own up to our own flaws, we’ll be a little more forgiving of the imperfections of others, because we all miss layups. We all shoot air balls. What we need to remember is, we should never be anything less than grateful for the privilege of just stepping on the court. 

Though hopefully my son isn’t sitting in the stands logging onto his Snapchat account.

Catch Tom on the Pat and Tom Morning Show on New Country 105.1, email him at [email protected], or follow him on Twitter @kncitom.