This is the soap box I promised last week. If you haven’t read where I’m going with this, you can do so here. By the way, if you think everyone deserves a participation ribbon, this post is NOT for you. You’ve been warned. 

So I’ve been mulling this whole everyone-gets-a-trophy phenomenon for the last week. I’m actually always mulling it, but the whole “crying couch thing” just had me reeling and then spiraling into a territory I’m not fond of visiting. This is why I don’t watch the news. I read news, but I can’t watch it. Even if I agree with what’s being said, AND on the off chance it isn’t the pure speculation 24 hour news cycles tend to spew, it angers me. It makes me frustrated with people and policies and the world in general. And as I said last week, the world amazes me. I enjoy being amazed by the world. What I do not enjoy being is surrounded by idiots. That territory I’m not fond of but have somehow found myself visiting once again? It’s the one populated by idiots, which means I am surrounded. Not. Enjoying. It.

I started off thinking this was clearly a generational thing, right? Some generation has to be held accountable for creating this deluded attempt at avoiding hurt feelings and poking at insecurities. Surely there is one group, one boxed in bunch with the biggest all-encompassing label that started it all? Let the blame game begin …

The Baby Boomers- The hippy dippy love generation that has the best of intentions, but often times can’t see the forest for the trees.  And as T.S. Eliot so effectively surmised – Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.

Gen Xers- The cynics and skeptics of the world. Highly educated yet aspirationally impotent and raised extremely self-aware yet totally doesn’t care. That’s a deadly combination when it comes to rearing youth.

Gen Y /Millennials- Though it seems they’ve barely cleared puberty, they are now producing progeny of their own and instilling the same sense of entitled narcissistic values they hold dear. In all honesty, the fire was lit before their time, but they can be blamed for continuing to carry the torch like it’s the next Olympics.

So, essentially, it’s not a generation specific thing. It’s a disease that has clearly been transmitted by each age band in some way, shape, form or the other through the years. So who is Patient Zero? Being a Gen X/Y hybrid myself, I have to blame somebody. That’s what we do.  I realized over the last week it has little to do with age and the philosophies that typically accompany it because it suddenly hit me.  Losers are Patient Zero. It’s the losers of the world that are to blame for this everyone-deserves-an-A-and-a-trophy crisis.

Somebody on a playground somewhere was picked last for kickball. Somebody in a school somewhere missed making the Academic Bowl. Somebody at a job somewhere got passed up for promotion…. hurt feelings were had, crying probably ensued,  thus the concept of everyone getting a ribbon was born. That somebody swore to themselves they were going to make the world better by never having their children or their children’s children feel sad and hollow and not enough like they once did. They promised to create an atmosphere for the future wherein everyone feels loved and equal and the antonym to inadequate (which I guess would be adequate?). In wallowing in their own self-pity a need emerged to right, in their mind’s eye, what were the horrific wrongs of those who created the hurt feelings and tears of derision.  They are losers who stood up and said, “We aren’t going to take it anymore!” and “Instead, we are going to create a false sense of security, expel motivation, and strip individuals of any agency they could possibly possess.” …. Okay. So that second declaration may have been more me. Doesn’t mean it’s not true.

The thing that blows my mind is how we’ve let this misguided attempt at fashioning a feel-good society stand.  We are perpetuating a myth. We are not all equal. Winning matters. Losing matters. I say this having lost MANY times in my life. I also wasn’t picked first – often.  And that’s ok, because each of those things defined me in some way. They were character builders.  They sent me down a path infused with free-will and consequence. Whenever I didn’t win at something, which was a lot, I was allowed the opportunity to let it impact me for better or for worse, contributing to the development of the adult that sits here typing before you today.

My parents also parented. They never pandered to my sensibilities. They never egged me on or offered fodder like “the coach was wrong” or “the teacher was wrong” or “you were robbed and deserve X just as much as that other kid.” They said things like “next time”, “it’s your choice”, “work harder” or “maybe it’s not for you.”  I appreciate that now, even if I didn’t then. Sure, the selfish insecure kid inside of me may have wanted my dad to go knocking on that teacher’s or coach’s door, giving him a piece of his mind and demanding comeuppance for offending his little girl’s feelings, but in hindsight, because of, you know, growth, I realize how detrimental that would have been to my spirit. It would have affected my purpose in life in truly destructive ways.

So let’s look at what giving everyone a universal ribbon means. Let’s look at what happens when earned awards and accolades are removed from the equation. Let’s look at what life is like when we don’t keep score.

When I played little league, we kept score, ergo there were winners and losers. The winners usually received a free soda from the concession stand courtesy of their proud parents or pleased coach while the losers walked off the field maybe with their heads in their hands but also with grounds to improve and a chance to fight harder on another day.  If there had been no score kept, and there had been no winners or losers, then everyone would have received a soda for a job done (whether it was done well or at all would be entirely moot).  So then what’s the incentive to work harder the next time around? Why try to improve? Or why work hard to maintain the lead? No practice needed. Just be present. Be a warm body on the bench or on the field and be rewarded for contributing something or contributing nothing at all. All things being equal, right? Four legs good, two legs bad… anyone? Anyone?

Fast forward twenty years and let’s look at those no-score-kept little leaguers now.  They’ve never been properly motivated in life. They’ve never had the efforts of a hard win be fruitful. They’ve never had to accept a hard loss without compensation.  Suddenly we’ve bred an entire society that swims in mediocrity and demands it be rewarded for the minimal effort put forth. And how will that pan out? A culture comprised of rather pedestrian intellects and never-really-try-too-hards?  There’d be no Steve Jobs, no Elon Musks, no Larry Birds or Steph Currys or Williams sisters, no Oprahs or Ellens, no Sydney Poitiers or Meryl Streeps or insert whatever notable or famous prize/award winner here because they are the cream – people who rose to the top in their respective fields because they weren’t just praised for being there. No, they made waves and it was recognized. They were losers at some point and that sense of loss was so great it pushed them to becoming more. By handing out trophies like hookers do hand jobs, what makes it special? What creates the warm fuzzy adrenaline filled yet euphoric feeling of earned success?

And that’s it. Just like respect, wins have to be earned, but what people don’t realize is that losses are earned, too. How you accept the outcome of a competition and the application of the lessons learned are what make you a better person. An improved person. A person with goals and purpose and zeal. Without adversity, there can be no struggle and without struggle there can be no strength. This isn’t Yoda-esque BS I’m spouting here. I don’t have a degree in psychology and I don’t read self-help books in my spare time. These are common sense concepts to me.

Yes, trophies, awards and accolades are essentially carrot danglers. They ignite the passion from within and are the impetus in pushing humans to strive for more.  They offer us motivation. They provide a platform for forward motion and that’s what creates culture.

I get that the last thing someone could want on this Earth is to see their child hurt or upset in some way. You want to fix it and you never want them to feel the way you felt when you lost whatever it is you lost. But by allowing them the opportunity to lose, you are elevating them and they may not see it now, hell, you may not see it now, but everyone will down the road. Instead of stunting their growth, you’re enabling it to thrive. Losing isn’t fun, but it’s life and it makes winning all the more glorious.

This moment from The Incredibles sums up what I’ve been ranting about for 1600+ words in 50 quick seconds.

Bottom line is this – the last thing I want when I’m standing at the Pearly Gates is for St. Peter to pat me on the back and offer me a participation ribbon. If that happens, I should walk through that gate with my head hung low because my life never really amounted to much.

This weekend, go win at something. Bask in that feeling. Then remind yourself it took a lot of losses to get there and that that’s okay.

Big BYE week for both of us and we need substitutions.  This is a week for bold moves.

Move #1: We’ve both been talking about the Cardinals defense, hardly waiting till today to pick them up. I may have set my alarm for 3:14AM to secure them. That’s 14 whole minutes I gave Clifford as a head start. He chose to sleep. Nothing I can do about that.

This.

To be continued …

Me. circa 1997?

“Doesn’t play well with others.”

There might be way more truth in that statement than I ever care to admit. And there might have been some catering to a kitschy 90s trend by literally wearing pithy inner thoughts on my chest for the world to see. Either way, a true statement is a true statement.

The not playing well with others can be attributed to many things, but there is one personal attribute that supports that statement more than any other: I am competitive. Like uber competitive.

Yes, I was an athletic competitor in my younger years, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. I’m competitive in life. All of it.

I’ve mentioned before how I always try to beat my time. If I made it from the burbs of Atlanta to New Paris, Indiana in 10 hours and 52 minutes one time, I’m doing my damndest to be there in at least 10 hours and 51 minutes the next. Shorter gas stops. Fewer bathroom breaks. Whatever it takes to beat my time. If it takes me 34 minutes to get to IKEA, next time it better be 33 (or less). And so on and so forth. I do this. All. The. Time.

I compete with roadways, not just Father Time. For instance, hugging curves on a highway or even a back country road. The suggested speed limit of taking the sharp curve might be 25 mph. I try to take it at 30. Or 35. (*whispers* or 45) Because I’m a rebel like that and driven to win. (Driven to win…couldn’t help myself. Heh heh.) Bottom line, I push it to win it. What exactly I’m winning at …??? Let’s just call it Life In General for now and move on, shall we?

I race with others as well, not just myself. What kind of competition would life be if it didn’t involve other people?  I sit at a red light ready to gun it the moment the light turns green just to beat whoever pulled up beside me. The entire thing is very Better Off Dead.

Them.

Me.

How I roll…

Though in my experience, unlike in Better Off Dead,  the contender is usually wholeheartedly unaware of the impending race.  I always stare to clue them in, but they never seem to notice. The point is, the moment that light flashes from red to green I’m off like a prom dress and the other guy eats my dust. Sometimes I even commentate on the race in my head. What? I come from the land of the Indy 500 and live in the heart of NASCAR country. Something was bound to rub off, right?

It doesn’t end at red lights. I pick out a person eyeing the shortest supermarket line. Doesn’t matter how old they are, I race them too. And I feel like this every time.

Suck it old lady with a fuller cart.

I brush my teeth faster than Clifford.

I race my dogs up the steps of my house.

I make sure my handwriting is prettier than the next person’s.

I do more reps each time I’m at the gym, even if it’s just one more.

And herein is where I realized that my competitive nature has possibly, maybe gotten a little out of hand …

I was at the pool at the gym. The lady in the lane next to me had her goggles and cap on ready to go. Needless to say, eyeing her form, she was definitely a competitive swimmer at some point in her life. Judging by her sharp strokes, she was probably a very good one.

She starts her leisurely laps and within minutes I find my laps somewhat synching with hers. We begin taking off at the same time for the opposite end. I find myself steadily increasing my speed. My form was definitely not as perfect as hers, but the need to beat her to the imagined finish line began to propel me forward rather than the motivation to get fit.

This is exactly how I saw it going.

I quickly went from my standard swimming workout routine to thrashing and kicking wildly while doing anything and everything I could to be faster than her. To be better. To win.

By this point, every intake of breath felt like daggers painfully and methodically stabbing my lungs, but still I was compelled to beat her. I had to get to the other end first. This compulsion to be the victor in a make-believe race consumed me over the course of several laps wherein her experience finally outweighed my determination. I had become an exhausted  drowned rat barely able breathe.

This is how it actually went.

Maybe I should have been a little embarrassed by my attitude. Maybe this is where I should have a realized my competitive nature had gone a little too far… but I didn’t.

The moment of realization wasn’t at the pool. It hit me in the sauna a week or so later. I walk in and see two ladies. One was sitting and one was laying down with a towel over her eyes. I took my seat in the corner, prepared to rest and relax after a nice workout.

I love saunas. They are the best thing about tanning beds without the cancer. I’m cold a lot, so the sauna is the warmest of hugs after a long hard day. The suggested limit to be in there is around 20 minutes. Sort of like the speed limit is a suggested 55.

I hadn’t been in there more than five when the lady that had been sitting upright got up to leave. A few stragglers came and went. Sitting for just a few minutes then heading out to carry on with their day.

I sat back for the long haul. I noticed the other lady was still lying down. The towel was still over her eyes. I could tell she was breathing, but I was surprised she was still in there. I was definitely approaching the 15 minute mark and she had clearly been there a few minutes before me.

In my mind, I decided I couldn’t possibly leave before her. And so another race was underway. I was going to stay in the sauna longer than this lady. She was there before me, yes, so there was no Earthly way I was leaving before her. A battle of wills had begun.

So I waited. And I waited. We were definitely at the 20 minute mark…. then we hit the 25 minute mark…she just laid there, motionless except for her breathing. Didn’t matter. I was going to win.

As the relaxation phase of the sauna slowly began to fade, replaced by that uncomfortable too-much-sweat-too-much-heat-utter-inability-to-breathe phase, I shamelessly remained. I was going to out-sauna this woman. I would take the stifling dry roast longer. I would sweat harder. I would be unmoved until I claimed victory over this tiny enclosed box of cedar that was beginning to create a bit of claustrophobia in my mind.

30 minutes … she was clearly playing hard ball. I was struggling to breathe. And the room was steadily closing in on me. No matter. I closed my eyes, trying to feel a nonexistent breeze on my face. My mouth was as dry as the Sahara.

Somewhere between 35 and 40 minutes, I began to smell defeat. It was in the air. Along with the sordid stench of bad B.O. I hit my breaking point. There was to be no victory that day.

I practically crawled on my hands and knees to the door.

It was maybe a bit much …

Pushing it open with the little strength I had left. The cool rush of air conditioning hit me hard. I was gasping for every gulp of air I could get. My entire body was tomato red. And my ego was sadly deflated.

Who was this woman? Never in my wildest dreams did I think she had it in her. As I stumbled to my locker, side-eyeing my pathetic sticky dehydrated reflection in the mirror, yeah, that’s when I realized I’d perhaps taken my competitive ways a bit too far.

Truth.

Nah. Competition is just too much fun.