Originally published by The Clifton Courier, September 5, 2018

We all have special talents.

Like, there are some people out there who can sing like Britney Spears (Britney Spears is the first one to come to mind, but I’m sure there are others) and then there are some people who can braid like a demon.

I was trying to think about my special talents the other night, when I rocked up at a birthday party I wasn’t invited to thrown in honour of a birthday boy I didn’t know at all and was doing my best to make friends. The question “what’s your talent?” was thrown around when I met two Tims and needed to commit something to memory about both so I wouldn’t mix them up (one could cook, the other 3D-printed things and, sadly, neither of them had “Tam” for a last name).

So now, today, being a little seedy and in need of a column idea, I’m trying to think of my own talents.

And look, I could really do with a list of positive things about me today. I mean, my idea of fulfilling the “be productive, be healthy and get organised” resolution I set for myself this weekend was ordering two pizzas with wholemeal bases – because the pizza I don’t eat in one sitting while watching five hours of television featuring Nicole Ritchie, I can take to work tomorrow*.

* Oh goodness, I’ve just done literally the same thing – the only difference is that I was watching Spiceworld instead of live-streamed television. I feel like I’ve developed a pattern of behaviour that I might need to address. 

Also, it’s faster for me to punch out a column in list-form, and I’d really like to get back to numbing my brain with Great News as quickly as possible. So here it is, my list of “talents”:

Noticing when someone gets a haircut: Yep, you might say that this isn’t a talent, it’s me having the sense of sight, using my eyes to gather information about the world. And you might say that having eyes isn’t a special trait, it’s merely an outcome of thousands of years of evolution.

But it’s more than that.

Because it’s not just noticing that someone has recently had their ends trimmed, it’s mentioning it. And it’s not just saying “hey there, sweet ‘do”. It’s telling someone “hey, beb, I see you, you’re noticed, you matter”.

And, sure, maybe that’s a little creepy and borderline stalkerish, but I like to think it’s a public service.

Avocado ripeness judging: Yes, I know my dark-rimmed circular glasses and constant stream of jokes about how my life is a mess screams millennial, so I realise that an avocado-related talent doesn’t exactly distance me from the cliché. However, I would like to point out that I’ve not shortened it down to “avo”, so there.

I just happen to have quite a good sense about when an avocado is ready. I don’t have to squeeze them in my palm like I would the still-beating heart I’d just ripped from the chest of my enemy – it’s more of a dainty pinch. And when there’s a two-for-one special with avocadoes, I know how to pick one ripe guy and one that will be ripe by the time I’ve eaten the first, ready-to-go avocado.

My old housemate thought it was really impressive, and she’s a clinical psychologist who owns multiple blazers.

Being able to pick things up with my feet: Look, I get it. Feet are gross.

Have you ever looked at them, like really looked at them? They’re like flat fists with tiny, stubby and, depending on you genetics, hairy fingers poking out one end. They just don’t look right.

However, my feet are surprisingly dexterous. I once picked up a needle – A NEEDLE – with my foot.

I know that society demands we wear shoes and that whole burning-hot-bitumen situation makes them necessary for getting around in summer, but I really think I’d function better if I didn’t have my feet imprisoned in footwear. I mean, it’s not like a could peel a banana with my feet, but I just think that the toes/forgotten phalanges aren’t being used to their full potential.

I can make fart noises with my neck: This probably means my neck skin isn’t going to age gracefully, but I can trap the air between my hand and my neck in such a way that it sounds like someone… coughing in their rompers*. I don’t even have to be sweaty (but it helps).

* This is a family euphemism for farting. And, honestly, I don’t mind it. I think there’s a bit of charm in using the term “rompers” instead of saying something crass like “bum cough”. 

However, I’ve now started doing it unconsciously, so I have to really watch myself when I’m doing it at work. This means I have to explain to my desk buddy about my talent so they don’t think I have some kind of gastric disease.

Appearing perfectly normal but oversharing so much that people realise I’m a bit of a weirdo: As evidenced above.