The other day, I was minding my own business—and I know that comes as a shock—when I got a phone call from a classmate gushing over the A she’d gotten for the semester in one of the classes we took together. Sure that I must have gotten an A+, she encouraged me to check my grade as well. Enthusiastically, I logged on to my account. My leg began to tremble with anticipation and my tail began to wag as I waited with baited breath for the screen to show me my final grades. Come to Papa!!! Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, there it was, an A-.

Immediately, I began to panic. An A-! How was that possible? My heart sank as I saw my future career as a successful writer and my goal to win the Nobel Prize crumble before my eyes—I’d even written an acceptance speech and everything. An A-! It must have been some sort of mistake, I thought to myself. So, I did what any logical person would do in my situation. I called my teacher at her home to tell her about the little snafu. When she answered, she explained that she wasn’t feeling well and was resting. Because of this, I didn’t waste any time with formalities or hope-you-feel-betters. Instead, I realized that every second was crucial and dove right in with my concern before her medication kicked in and she got loopy or lost the energy to hold up the phone. To my horror, as opposed to her acknowledging any lapse in judgment, she said, “Michael, your final paper was horrible.???

I clutched my chest. It was as if I were Fred Sanford and was on my way to join my wife, Elizabeth, in heaven. Not knowing or caring that I was on the brink of a melt down, she continued, “There were just so many problems with it. I put it in the mail yesterday. You should receive it back soon.??? I tried to breath, but found it increasingly difficult. It wasn’t a mistake. I had actually earned an A-. To add injury to insult, I’d listened to my teacher verbally tell me how disappointed she was. I hadn’t felt that much like a failure since my mother informed me that I’d fallen short of her every hope, wish, and dream for me and that Jesus sent her a fax in response to one of her prayers saying that I was a lost cause.

Just like everyone else, I get performance evaluations at work, so I’m used to being told that someone made a mistake in hiring me and that they really should have gone with that homeless guy who hits the deck every three minutes because he thinks he’s still in Vietnam. Trust me, if anyone is used to unconstructive criticism, it’s me (I have a new manager). On top of that, I’ve been on a few blind dates that involved my victims changing their phone numbers, relocating out of state, and having multiple restraining orders issued just to make sure I got the point that they meant business. Fortunately, the restraining orders say nothing about texting and I have an unlimited plan.

Anyway, the following day, I did everything in my power to avoid going home and confronting my mailbox. I washed the car, volunteered at a local shelter, and listened to some guy for three hours as he explained why I was just PERFECT for the Army. Ok, I didn’t do any of that stuff, but I thought about it, and I did take the long way home. When I got there, I kicked the envelope around the house for a while before tearing open the package to see the drawing of a sad face next to a B–. Yes, you are reading it correctly, not just a B with one minus, but two. My paper had been an epic failure. For years to come, my paper would be used as a cautionary tale for students across the nation and would possibly be placed in the Smithsonian for future reference by generations to come.

Now, I don’t consider myself to be a perfectionist. My clothes aren’t always wrinkle-free. My desk can sometimes be a little messy (one day I found a meatball lodged in my keyboard). And my mother will tell you that I’ve launched some horrible attacks on my mustache and hairline in effort to save money by cutting them both myself. I mean, who needs a professional barber when you have a pair of scissors and a butter knife? However, receiving an A- is like having a teacher say, you earned an A—sike! Or, I’ll give you an A, but it will be the lowest possible one I can give you and I’m not going to like it!

Though I was disappointed with my grade, with everything going on in the world, an A- really isn’t so bad. In fact, before my teacher took out the restraining order, she’d told me that an A- was “a damn good grade.??? I mean, I could think of worse things, like sitting in a movie theater and getting to the end before realizing you’re watching the wrong movie—one day I waited a whole 2 hours for Sponge Bob to show up and kick some Dark Knight butt, but he never did. I should have known that Heath Ledger would have never agreed to do a Sponge Bob Square Pants movie. That should have been my first clue. Also, worse than getting an A- is being 99 cents short for an item off the dollar menu at McDonalds. I hate it when that happens. Even worse then that, is going nine months thinking your pregnant and then realizing it was just gas all along.

The moral of this story is that you have to accept the good with the bad. Every day is not going to be sunny and filled with theme music by Britney Spears. Some days you’ll laugh, and most days you’ll cry. Though the A- looks extremely out of place between the A’s I got in my two other classes, I will not let it get me down. I’m a human being and I’m imperfect. When I fall down, I get right back up, look around to make sure no one noticed, and then hobble away. When I am cut, do I not cry and bleed Starbucks? And at the end of the day, does it really matter what grades you get in college when your future will be solely based on looks away? Certainly not!!! So take that A-.

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