Column by Allison Borthwick, Opinion Editor

Last name: “Struggle;” first name: “Captain.”

Nice to finally meet you under my true, God-forsaken name, everyone.

Now, I feel I need to make it clear that I don’t mean “struggle” in the sense that I’ve had a truly hard life in the face of adversity and hardship.

No – see, I’m stuck in some weird limbo between the “basic white girl” definition of struggle and having some truly unfortunate, but eventually laughable, things happen to me.

I would be the star of the off-brand remake of “New Girl,” called something awful like “Different Woman” or “You’re not Zooey Deschanel. Stop trying.”

I would have the floral-printed dresses, the thick brown hair and the big eyes, but something would be slightly off about the whole situation.

There would be constant wardrobe malfunctions with the dresses, my thick brown hair would probably catch on fire at some point and my big eyes would be beautiful at first glance, but upon further inspection have definitely seen things that can’t be unseen.

I’m mostly Captain Struggle because I make really dumb decisions sometimes. Luckily, I have the sense of humor of an elderly uncle who lost his social filter years ago “in the war” and who is also dead inside, so laughing the dumb decisions off later is not a problem.

For instance, a series of poor decisions led to a young Lieutenant Struggle breaking her arm twice in less than two years, in basically the same place.

The first time I broke my arm I made the wise decision of making a sharp turn while riding my bike on my gravel driveway. I immediately fell onto my side, took the bike down with me and landed on my left arm.

My dad rushed over to try to help me up and I, a child, screamed at him with the gusto and spite of a mother in labor, “DON’T. TOUCH ME.”

The second time I broke my arm I was preparing for a birthday party.

You read that right.

I was invited to a roller skating birthday party and had never roller skated before in my life, so I did what any sane, insecure child would do and made my mom take me to the roller rink a week before the party.

You know, so I wouldn’t look like an idiot.

The irony is not lost on me.

So yes, I broke my arm while practicing roller skating for a birthday party I, consequently, wouldn’t actually be able to roller skate at.

At this point you’re probably wondering, once again, what the point is to this column.

Here it is: Make the most of unfortunate situations.

Embrace the struggle and roll with it (unless you have broken your arm and you can’t physically roll, per doctor’s orders).

I went to that birthday party anyway, and while all my friends were gliding effortlessly on those demon wheel shoes, I owned the arcade.

I made it rain arcade tickets and treated myself to every prize, toy and gadget I could have ever wanted.

I was the real winner that day, for sure. And if anybody questions it, they can kiss my cast.