A little while ago I attended a family event with BF and the rest of his family. Now, I’m usually pretty competitive myself. When someone claims I can’t do something, or that they do it better, my gut reaction is “yeah? wanna bet?”
I knew before that particular Saturday, that BF is way more competitive than I am. And that his brothers are the same. Only, I didn’t know quite how much so.
At the party, in the backyard, there was this sandbox for the kids. You know, to build a castle in and stuff. BF and his brothers decided to race cars there. Like little toy cars, that you ‘flick’ forward with your fingers. What are those called in English? Anyways, those are what BF and his brothers raced with.
They built this elaborate track in the sandbox. They took the utmost care in picking out their cars. They made me do the whole wave-the-flag start to set off the race.
There we had them. The man I’d have as the father of my children (were I ever to have any), a man I admire greatly and love more than my favourite pair of Christian Louboutin shoes, with his equally admirable, highly professional and very successful older brothers. In a sandbox, flicking forward little toy cars, dressed in suits and ties, and arguing over the rules. Rules that changed depending on whoever was last at the given moment.
The jury’s still out on who won.
And I though I was competitive.
