There are several little things I wish I were good at, but I’m not. At some point, I need to just decide that I’m fine with not being good at them. They include:

• wrapping gifts
• using chopsticks
• uncorking wine
• finding the edge of transparent packing tape after it slips off the dispenser’s teeth

These are little things. My quality of life does not diminish because I’m not good at them, spare a few passing moments of mild shame (“You don’t know how to use chopsticks?!”).

But what about the big things I’m not good at. Period, not question mark. Like telling my family that I love them. Or refraining from an immediate and intense meltdown over something quite ephemeral. (Some things never change.)

I post happy moments on Instagram because I am happy. It almost feels like summer, even now, the sludge of early March in Chicago-ish-land. I make fancy cocktails at home with bourbon and ice. I toast overpriced champagne in the winter sun of sidewalk cafés.

But then sometimes I’ll be driving and I’ll hear a song. You know? You know how that goes? And I’ll cry. Not a big ugly sob, but come on, some tears. Tight and kinetic in my chest. Then I’ll wonder how I might appear to people in cars next to me. Are they watching? Is it a female-specific trait to wonder how you look when you cry, all red-nosed and puffy-eyed. Period, not question mark.

That thought feels vaguely un-feminist. I push it away. Picking apart the crying usually stops the crying, so then I’m just a girl in a car. Feeling self-conscious. Again.