The Joy of Mild Incompetence

There was a time when being competent meant you could cook a meal, balance a checkbook, and fold laundry without crying.

Today, competence means remembering your password.

All of them.

Preferably without triggering a security alert that politely informs you that you have “exceeded the number of attempts,” as though three guesses indicate a fundamental character flaw.

The other day, I logged into a portal on the first try.

On the first try.

I did not move for several seconds. I just sat there, absorbing the magnitude of what had occurred. There should have been applause. Possibly a small parade.

This is what personal growth looks like in 2026.

The Fitted Sheet Olympics

Let us talk about fitted sheets.

I begin with optimism.

I locate two corners and convince myself this is manageable. I tuck. I smooth. I breathe like a reasonable adult.

Then something shifts. A rogue elastic corner escapes. The sheet morphs into a fabric octopus with ambition.

Suddenly, I am wrestling with domestic geometry.

When I do manage to fold one neatly, I feel a sense of triumph usually reserved for mountain climbers and marathon runners. I consider texting someone about it.

The bar is lower than it used to be.

But the joy is real.

The Call Tree Labyrinth

“Press 1 for billing.”
“Press 2 for technical support.”
“Press 3 if you are unsure why you called, but you feel emotionally committed.”

By minute seven, I am pressing buttons with the intensity of someone disarming a complicated device.

What I want is simple.

A human.

Instead, I am gently redirected back to the website I already visited, which is how we ended up here in the first place.

If I eventually reach a living person, I become instantly gracious. Patient. Almost reverent.

Because connection, it turns out, is rare.

Chatbots and Other Modern Trials

“Hi! I’m here to help!”

Are you really?

You type a complete, thoughtful sentence.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”

You simplify your question.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”

Eventually, you type “REPRESENTATIVE” in all caps like you are sending a flare into the night sky.

It is not that we are incompetent.

It is that we are human beings attempting to interact with algorithms.

And Then There Is Us

But perhaps the most advanced level of mild incompetence is human-to-human communication.

You love this person. Deeply. You would absolutely bring them soup if they were sick.

And yet the two of you can stand in the same kitchen, speaking the same language, and somehow end up in completely different emotional places.

You say, “I was just hoping for a little reassurance.”

They hear, “You have failed me historically and spiritually.”

You say, “I’m tired.”

They hear, “You are the source of all global instability.”

You attempt to clarify.

They attempt to defend.

At some point, both of you are explaining what you meant five sentences ago, while also reacting to what you think the other person implied three sentences ago.

It becomes conversational time travel.

There are moments I think we should all carry cue cards that say:

“What I actually meant was…”
“I am not attacking you.”
“I am simply overwhelmed.”
“Please assume I love you.”

The miracle is not that we misunderstand each other.

The miracle is that we keep trying anyway.

We circle back.
We soften.
We say, “That came out wrong.”
We try again in slightly different words.

Human communication may be wildly inefficient.

But it is also proof that we care enough to stay in the room.

And honestly, staying in the room might be the highest form of competence we have.

The Real Victory

We forget passwords.

We wrestle sheets.

We pressed the wrong button.

We argue with automated systems.

We misplace our words.

We misunderstand and are misunderstood.

And still, we wake up and attempt the day again.

Perhaps the joy is not in flawless execution.

Perhaps the joy is in resilience without perfection.

In laughing at ourselves.

In admitting, “Well, that escalated unnecessarily.”

In dialing back in.

In choosing to keep speaking.

That feels like competence of a quieter kind.

Coffee Thoughts

This morning, as the light slipped across the kitchen counter and the coffee warmed my hands, I realized something small but steady.

The world may run on passwords, portals, and complicated menus. Our relationships may occasionally require subtitles. But none of us are meant to move through this life like polished machines.

We are meant to try. To miss the corner of the fitted sheet. To press the wrong button. To say the wrong thing and then gently correct it.

And tomorrow morning, with coffee in hand and sunlight easing its way in, we get another chance to attempt competence again.

Not perfectly.

Just honestly.

That feels like enough.

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