Despite proving to myself consistently that I am inadequately equipped to perform normal tasks, I remain a fiercely competitive person. I can't help it. It's in my blood. I've always despised losing more than anything else on the planet.
If I'm not better than someone else at something -- anything -- I will whine until I manage to convince myself that I got screwed in some way, shape or form.
Sometimes, my complaints are legitimate. Often, I will find myself stuck in the most impossible of situations in which any sensible person would admit wallowing in self-pity to be the only reasonable response. It happens in sports, it happens in life. I'm used to it. But I still hate it.
But this weekend, I took part in an athletic event even one with my relative lack of luck and glut of gut should have dominated. There would be no need for my whining at the end of this. The event was titled "The Beer Olympics," and it should have been something I cleaned up like the leftover fries in a Five Guys bag.
The competition included eight events, including beer pong, flip cup and darts, the bare essentials of party games. The task was simple: drink faster and perform straightforward hand-eye tasks better than the other seven teams participating. One point would be rewarded to the winner of an event, eight points to the last-place finisher. Like golf, another sport generally dominated by men with impressive waist lines, lowest score wins.
Seriously, this gala of guzzling had my name written all over it. When the lighting ceremony was taking place (yes, we did have one), my eyes had a brighter fire than the torch. I was officially in the zone. I was not going to lose.
Unfortunately, a last-place finish in beer pong, the first event, dug my team into an inescapable ditch. What made it worse was our extreme confidence heading into the event, and the fact that the cups seemed to reject our shots like some jabroni at the bar with a bad pick-up line. We were emotionally shattered, and we still had the entire competition to play.
But, as in every game I lose, there were things I could not control working against us.
First was the obvious home-field advantage the hosts had. They had played on this table, had time to get their distance down. They knew exactly how to throw their darts. Unfair, I say. When a country hosts an Olympic event, many of the arenas and playing surfaces are built brand-new specifically for the games. This should have been the case here, too. No excuses.
Second, there was the magical cancellation of three of the events, right when my team was mounting what was sure to be a monumental comeback after an event win and several respectable finishes. Obviously, the powers-that-be feared the surging men in green.
Third was the inexplicable keg kick when I had finally gotten into a groove. We had to go get more supplies. Too poorly timed for coincidence.
After this weekend, after Lady Luck -- and her cohorts, no doubt -- destroyed me at this terrible time, on the biggest stage of my life, I should essentially give up on all forms of competition. It's starting to break me.
At least the Pennsylvania primaries are next month. Which one of these candidates is firmly against torture?
