My 39, Day 22.

For every one thing that comes easily to me (and it’s a short list), there are 10 more that I fail at spectacularly.

Baking from freshly made dough (it always does well until the second rise – you know, hours into a process built on yeast and hope).

Arranging anything slightly resembling a gallery wall. Measure. Hang. Swear. Repeat.

Coaxing a winter bulb kit into bloom (in my house, amaryllis and paperwhites are equally doomed).

Blessedly, one of the gifts of age is being ok with the old college try gone awry – and for me, anyway – knowing well enough to recognize when I’m really truly awful at something.

My family doesn’t have to have the homemade cinnamon roll recipe from Southern Living for Christmas morning breakfast (even if I did give my husband the stink eye when he put his hand on my shoulder and said in a show of clueless spousal support, “It’s okay, honey. Just make the Pillsbury ones.”)

It is perhaps wiser to put down the hammer, pour a glass of wine, and call a friend with an eye for home décor and design before adding yet another hole to the sheetrock.

And that Christmas cactus at the nursery? Easily a better buy than the cutesy kits from Christmases past, especially with my track record for turning buds to duds at a startling rate.

Much as I’m curious, and stubborn as I am about taking on certain tasks myself, I’ve no doubt the list of things on my “really truly awful” list will only continue to grow.

And that’s cool.

Given the choice, I’ll always take attempts gone awry over never even tried.