I come from a family of competitors. Throw my winning-obsessed husband into the mix and anything competitive is our kryptonite.
You know Rock, Paper, Scissors? Jamie and I instituted this game early in our marriage. Poopy diapers are usually on the line so the stakes are high. And miraculously enough, I win 99% of the time.
Too bad my hard-working hubby is only home 15% of the time.
You know that game where you serenely knock the ball with a mallet through wickets? Some people call it Croquet.
My brothers and I call it Blood Sport.
Growing up, volleyball was one of our sports de choix. All three of us were MVPs of our high school. And all three of us still goad and harass each other to no end anytime we play.
I was asked to be the volleyball coach at church. Saturday was our first game. Something you should know about church ball: athleticism does not abound. At all. I consoled myself by saying they are super sweet girls and I would rather have that than snotty yet great players.
I take it back.
We were creamed, mutilated and trampled upon our first game.
I like to think I handled it well but every single point scored against us was like a daggar to the heart.
Or at least a croquet mallet.
I was resigned to my losing station in life until the second game when I noticed Jamie’s former flame was the coach. Suddenly, my own fire was ignited and it became The Most Important Thing in the World that we defeat her…errr, I mean them.
Our teams were neck-and-neck the whole time but amazingly, we pulled out a nail-biting win. She and I graciously congratulated each other after the game and I was reminded that she is beautiful, sweet and exactly the kind of person you could never hate.
But evidently, the kind you could beat.
[Insert evil cackle.]