That Competitive Spirit

I am a competitor by nature. It’s in my genes.  I love to win, and I hate to lose.  Any time I can get a “W,” I’m happy. Sometimes I make up rules as I go to help me. Other times I try to cheat or use my girlish charms to distract my opponents. I’m not a graceful loser; I’m an obnoxious winner! I’ve gotta win, damn it!

My family is what I like to refer to as “unsportsmanlike.” We are an aggressive, dog-eat-dog kind of clan. It’s the kind of family that will cheat when competing against a child. It’s just how we do it. Whether you’re nine or twenty-nine, you’re going to get the full strength version of awesomeness when it comes to competing.  We can’t play board games together without shades of Dane Cook’s Scrabble bit coming to mind (if you don’t know what I’m talking about…youtube it). We take outdoor activities like corn hole a bit too serious. We all love to win. It’s what winners do. WE WIN.

Trash talking, an integral part of winning, is probably one of the greatest things I ever learned from my dad. The art of the mental pscyhe-out is quite possibly one of my most cherished skills. Taunting, teasing, and terrifying my opponent is what I do. I feel the confidence coursing through my body; wait, make that arrogance. I will win. It’s happening. I’ve got this. I will destroy my opponents because that’s what WE do. WE WIN.

So I have a Wii game console. I have a hottie, competitive bf. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to exercise my dominance. I had an amazeballs plan to put Hottie in his place. That is, second place. Yes, I felt the need to trash-talk and destroy him in Wii play. It’s no big deal. He’s a real man. He can handle my awesomeness. Now, is this healthy for our relationship? Who knows, but I’m a winner, and I had to win. I couldn’t lose. I proceeded with the standard-issue trash-talk, flaunting of my smile, flipping of my hair. I pulled out all my tricks. I played Wii like a champion. Not like a silver-medalist. Like a gold-medalist. I did work. I was on fire.


At first the sinking feeling of defeat nearly sent me into some sort of severe shock. After a few moments, though, my heart did a little happy dance. Have I finally met my match? Hottie’s game was all too familiar to me. It rivaled my own game in ways I didn’t know others could replicate.  Trash-talk, muscle flexing, sheepish grins. He was good. Real good. Damn it.

So we played. We went toe-to-toe, nunchuk-to-nunchuk. We threw down in epic Wii fashion.We both used our tricks of the trade. The winning trade, that is.


I pinched myself to see if I was alive because I was pretty sure this wasn’t happening. A tie? What is that? No one ties…much less ties twice! I fear it can only mean one thing: I think I’ve finally met my match.

Play on, champions. Play on.


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