Of my achievements, the one of which I am most proud is my DFR, which, for those who don’t know, means ‘Doctorate in Failed Relationships’.
You may not have heard of this degree because it’s almost impossible to attain, and as a result, quite rare. Anyone can earn a Bachelor’s in Failed Relationships, because those entail failing at only one or two major relationships, at most. But earning a DFR is much trickier, because it requires a staggering number of relationship catastrophes that one must begin collecting very early in life.
In my case, I undertook my apprenticeship in failed relationships just as I started middle school. This was about the time when my parents concluded that I did not at all suit them as their daughter. I determined this from their remarks to me, such as, “Why can’t you be more like your sister?" and even, “What in God’s name did I do wrong to get a kid like you?”
These observations became more frequent as I went on through high school, so that by the time I was ready to graduate, I’d flunked dismally at being the terrific offspring my parents were sure they deserved.
Ah…but I’d become a mastermind, apparently, at being an appalling one.
And so, my initial Failed Relationship was acquired. It was a tough triumph, I confess, because a big part of me struggled against it, as many of us do when we come near to reaching a cherished goal. I guess in this instance we wouldn’t call that, ‘fear of success,’ but rather ‘fear of not failing.’ Nonetheless, the older I got, the easier it was to accept and maintain that brilliantly disastrous rapport with my parents. In fact, (though I hope I’m not bragging too much here) I managed to do so for all the rest of their lives.
My next victory at Failed Relationships came in college. Buoyed by my heady ranking of ‘Disastrous Daughter’, I next set out to become ‘Gullible Girlfriend’.
Attentively, I observed every young man I met. Somehow I instinctively knew that it would be much harder for me to fail at this next relationship unless I cast aside those who genuinely like me for who I was, had a positive sense of self, and an intelligent world view. I was 19 when I met a 25-year-old who suffered from a bleeding ulcer, declared that “most women in general smelled awful, but car transmission fluid smelled great”, and boasted, “Who needs to travel out of the United States, when you can get any kind of world food you want right here in New York?”
