Fail.

In 6th grade I was just under 5 feet tall, I had braces and glasses, and knee caps bigger than my feet. My hobbies included reading, reading, and reading. We've already been over how I am not an athlete, so when I announced to my mother that I was trying out for cheerleading, you can imagine her surprise. Bless my mom's heart, she let me do it.

I went to four days of cheer boot camp, where I learned a slew of poorly rhymed chants, and crazy 8-count dances. Then I would go home and practice everything I had learned, 100 more times. I rattled chandeliers toe-touching off beds, and almost broke my mom's back, trying to get her to teach me how to do a back walk-over. I was in it, to win it.

Try-outs were held in the gym, primping was to be done in the locker room. Friday afternoon I walked straight into a mad house, a mad house run by cheer moms. My mom is a CPA, she was no where to be found. I went to the mirror, tied a red ribbon around my pony tail, covered my teeth in vaseline, pinned the number 12 to my shirt, and that was that.

I don't remember actually performing for the judges. I only remember taking one last breath of glitter-infused air, to try and slow my heartbeat, before running into the gym screaming like a mad woman.

The results were posted on the front door of the school at 5pm. I looked the paper up and down, no number 12. I thought I had just missed it, so I blinked a couple times and looked again. Tears started to blur my vision, and I realized there was not a one or a two anywhere on that paper.

Crushed, devastated, heart-broken, dramatic, hysterical, silly. All words you could have used to describe me. But it was middle school, so I was allowed to be all of those things. Before you jump to any conclusions, No, this didn't scar me for life, and No, it's not the worst thing to ever happen to me. It is however, the first time that I remember feeling like I had failed. I had done everything I could, and it still wasn't enough.

Failure's been on my mind, I'm afraid of it. I don't know many people who aren't. There are things I won't try and words I won't say, because I'm afraid to fail. A couple years ago, I found a quote by Winston Churchill:

Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.

I have failed at least 100 times since trying out for cheerleading, and I'm still alive. But sometimes I need to be reminded that it's the courage that counts.

When in doubt, always blame the dog.

Dad likes to joke that there's estrogen literally dripping from the walls of our house. If I were to ever see little drops of estrogen sliding down the wallpaper, I doubt I'd be very surprised. With 5 women(6 including or dog), girly behaviors are to be expected.

I was/am the test run. Mom and Dad knew to take the Barbie shoes off of the little girls' dolls, because I ate quite a few. Mom and Dad knew not to walk Emily into 6th grade, because they had mortified me 2 years earlier. Mom and dad knew never to let the little girls wear black eyeliner, because everyday for 2 years I left the house looking like I had rubbed coal all over my eyes.

I'm kind of rambling, but the point of this post is to tell you that I love being the oldest. I love that I came first, and I love that I got to be the test run. Mostly because of this story:

When I turned 16, all of a sudden I was allowed to invite boys over to "hang out." This had never happened in the Stolworthy house, and every time it did, believe me it was an event. Emily, Hailey, and Ally would parade in and out of the room telling embarrassing stories about me, blending things for no reason(other than to be annoying), and doing gymnastic tricks right in front of the t.v.

Usually I'd let them be crazy for 2.6 seconds and then yell, "Mooooooooooooooooom get them out of here."

Mature, I know. Mom doesn't reply to what she calls the "polish intercom system," so I usually had to go upstairs and hiss about how embarrassing my sisters were and beg my parents to put their children to bed. Mom and Dad would kind of roll their eyes(because I was ridiculously dramatic) and corral the little kids up stairs. One of the little girls managed to get out and sneak downstairs every time. I'm about 99% sure Dad was paying them to spy, but that's a debate for another time.

On this particular occasion Kayla Williams(Starbuck now) and I had a couple boys over to watch a movie. The little girls had finally left us alone, and we were trying to put the moves on these super hot guys.

Halfway through the movie we hear someone fart.

I blame Kayla, Kayla blames the dog, and we all just go back to watching the movie. It happens one more time, only we pass it off as a couch cushion noise.

Then it happens again, only this time louder and we just can't continue to ignore the trend. I blame Kayla again, she blames the dog again, and then we start to hear snickering.

We turn the lights on, and out rolls one of my sisters(I can't tell you which one) from underneath the coffee table. She had spying for an hour, and the only reason we found her is because she couldn't keep her farts to herself! My sister screams, "It was me, I farted! I farted 7 times!" and it was made abundantly clear, neither Kayla, nor the dog, was to blame.

This kind of precious blackmail, only comes about when you're the oldest, and it's stories like this one, I can't wait to tell future brother-in-laws. Payback little girls, pay back.

(Wo)Man Code

I think the Man Code is dumb. It lets guys keep ugly mustaches, wait 3 days to call, and feel entitled to forget your birthday. Although the execution is poor, the concept is valuable. Women need such a code, well-written of course, to protect friendships, balance back-stabbing, and check mood swings. I'd call all women to a convention in Philadelphia to draft an official charter, but we just don't have that kind of time. Born a dictator, I've made up my own, and am single-handedly ratifying it as the official Woman Code of the greater Provo area.

1. Any woman may point out another woman's mustache, or unibrow, without fear of penalty.

2. A woman may not ever blame "that time of the month" for catty, vindictive behavior.

3. The divulging of another woman's bad habits, in front of a handsome man, is strictly prohibited.

4. A woman does not call other women degrading names like "slut," "skank," "whore," or "B****."

5. No woman ever leaves her house without applying deodorant.

6. A woman does not wear cross trainers and jeans.

7. A woman does not name drop brands or ask the price.

8. If a woman's boyfriend/husband gets sick, she must at least pretend she made the soup.

9. A woman is only allowed to be 5 minutes late.

10. A woman never criticizes a friend's boyfriend, only nods when the friend brings up his idiotic behavior.

11. A woman never lets her friend leave the house dressed like a prostitute.

12. A woman does not mystic tan.

13. A woman is always grammatically correct.

14. A woman does not date a friend's ex-boyfriend, unless she has permission from said friend.

15. A woman does not chase after men, men come to her.

16. A woman does not wear Juicy sweatsuits, or anything bedazzled for that matter.

17. A woman writes thank you notes.

18. A woman does not text, call, or message ex-boyfriends to tell them she misses them.

19. A woman does not express an opinion, unless she is well versed in the topic of discussion, and can support her argument with fact.

20. A woman does not abuse her feminine charm. (Unless she needs basketball tickets.)

If any of these laws are broken the woman in question is stripped of her title, and will from then on be known as just a girl.

*Women are exempt from extending girls the courtesies extended to women. (Particularly the name calling.)