I beat my older brother in a race down our street. I know, as an adult, it’s a silly thing to care about. And I shouldn’t take it seriously. But I really couldn’t believe I won. 7 year old me would be ecstatic. She always thought maybe she would outrun her older brother one day, but years and years of losing our impromptu races- to the car, to our front door, to the park- always taught her that it was highly unlikely and probably even physically impossible. And as I got older, it somehow got pushed down on my list of priorities.
Until we raced again. And suddenly I cared. Suddenly I cared a lot.
Big brother and I were waiting for our Dad by the car. We were supposed to all run errands together. But I was tired of waiting and suddenly a race seemed like a fun idea. It was such a beautiful day out. Really hot and sunny. He was open to the idea. I love that my brother doesn’t think he’s too cool or too old or too busy to indulge my whims.
After a quick debate, we decided we would race to the white car parked at the end of the street.
“On the count of three ok? Go on go…” Clarity is key. “One, two, three, GO.”
I was flying. It was only a short distance, and we both started laughing as we sprinted towards the finish line, realizing the outcome. As a winner, I was jubilant and extremely ungracious. I ran back down the road toward our house, past a group of little kids on bikes, jumping around, yelling to the whole street about my small victory.
My brother was still laughing. I slowed down to a walk. My feet suddenly felt hot on the pavement and I wished I had shoes.
The girl who just can't play it cool 