Pressure's on.

Did I tell you guys that I went to a weightlifting competition? I went to cheer for my trainer and to check it out because the people at the gym keep telling me I should compete. I went, and it was just like always. Oh friends. I hate competitions.

Walking into the weightlifting competition felt exactly the same as ever. Whatever that mixture is, sweat, testosterone, fear and excitement, it smells the same at every competition I’ve ever been to. The vibe was exactly the same. People milling around, nervously glancing at the competition; the long-timers joking with each other, the very slightest bit self-satisfied with their insider status. Officious bustling for some and long monotonous waits for the competitors. Being at a competition means daylong stretches of nervous boredom, usually in an ugly gym. Walking in there brought it all back.

Even so, there were things I loved. New arcane rules to figure out! It is the side judge’s responsibility to make sure the bar is loaded right. Only thing the lifter has to do is lift. People with different techniques to compare! New cheers! I especially loved ‘battle that bar!’, which I will now say to anyone I ever see picking anything up. New clichéd explanations! I hope I never explode too fast at the beginning of the lift. That would be bad. There were goofy people in shirts so tight they couldn’t bend or lower their arms. That was silly. There’s something else I love. I’ve seen it lots, and it moves me every time. I love watching coaches and judges and crowds take beginner or not-talented athletes seriously. Seeing three giant dudes giving all their concentration to spotting a tiny woman benchpressing a bar they could twirl like a baton, all of them cheering her on, gives me tear prickles. It is plain decency, but it is lovely to see.

The important part of all this is that it is your responsibility to keep me from competing again. I will not enjoy it, and I will be pissed I squandered a whole day. I will feel yucky, sitting there waiting for my event to be called. I do not care if I win, and I do not care if I lose, and I do not care if anyone else knows the full extent of my extraordinary natural strength, and I do not like the company of competitive athletes during competition, so there is no point to it. But. There is that narrow slice of stuff I really love, including training and rules and technique, and that opens a wedge. If the cool kids admire my biceps and tell me that it won’t hurt the first time, I might fall for it. If I come back here and mention that just maybe I might enter this one event, you need to tell me that I will hate it. And invite me to something funner, like, say, anything else in the world. And do an intervention, all discreet and friendly-like. That is your role in all this.