You are born, and you keep on winning.
You keep on winning and you get first place in everything you do. You’re the literal luckiest girl alive; training has nothing to do with it.
You keep on winning and you weren’t even going for gold. You were aiming for a participation award. Nothing that calls this much attention to you.
You keep on winning, because you are literally incapable of being anywhere near being described as subpar.
You keep on winning, breaking records, and winning then breaking the heart of every girl you meet.
You, the recipient of a gold number 1, have never felt failure in your life. There is no joy for you, the perpetual winner.You once heard someone say they were proud of themselves for coming in third place. You want to feel that.
You aim for mediocrity, but it doesn’t happen. You think maybe this is your failure, your inability to be anything but the best is not a blessing but a curse.
You call your mother, telling her about this. She understands. She gives you a “#2 daughter of the year” trophy to sit on your shelf. It’s the only one you’ve ever displayed. Your sister’s trophy is larger. It has a #1. You are both happy.
Your sister has never gotten first place in her life.
At twenty eight years of age, you don’t win for the first time in your life. You are proud of yourself.
Later on you earn, not win, the love of a beautiful woman. Her skin is bronze. Her soul is silver. Her eyes are nearly golden, but not quite.
You look at her and you see everything you’ve ever wanted: a life with flaws and downturns. You tell her this. She understands. She smiles.
She yells at you for using women’s bodies as metaphorical trophies: symbols of accomplishment, no matter what gender their partner is.
You apologize. You didn’t mean it. She leaves.
She deserves better than you.