There was an interesting story in the radio about competition. Several experts and authors spoke about the good and ill effects of competing on children. They aired the edgy comments of a five year old trying to beat his mom at Monopoly, and the strategy of a swimming coach who emphasizes self improvement above winning. A little girl named
Perry talked about what it means to do her best.
"If I have absolutely pushed myself in a race, I know it because my legs feel like jelly."
Jellylegs. While I am certainly no swimmer, I have known what it means to be all in.
Tuesday nights are one of my benchmarks. John has gone to sing barbershop on Tuesdays for the past twenty years. It is as consistent as the migration of monarch butterflies to Mexico. Hundreds of thousands
of them perch on the oyamel trees to rest, enough to weigh down the branches. Every Tuesday night that was not trumped by travel or supreme family needs John trundled off to be with the guys.
He has been reliable. I have not. For the years when the kids were still bent on fighting me to avoid bedtime, I hated that he went. Tuesday nights were synonymous with exhaustion, resentment and high pitched voices. But I still supported him going.
Barely.
Jellylegs.
But the tides have changed. Now everyone too young to vote goes to bed without fanfare, and the word "barbershop' no longer raises my hackles. John can go. Twice in one week if he wants, which is often. But my jellylegs have turned into sea legs. I don't mind.
