Not #1

Okay, okay. I get it. You win, world. I’m not the best. You’ve convinced me.

The notion has recently occurred to me that I am not better than anyone. At anything. I think it’s safe to say that there is a YouTube video or Guinness Record book somewhere out there to prove that so many people are better than me at so many things. At everything, actually.

I’d like to think of myself as a man of many talents, a jack-of-most-trades, if you will. I can write a good story, solve a Rubik’s cube in a small amount of time, play a number of musical instruments, balance on the hind wheels of a wheelchair, skateboard, play Mario Kart 64, and have sex with a girl—most of these with one hand tied behind my back (don’t read too much into that). And while those are only a fraction of the abilities I possess, I can prove somehow that other people do them better, quicker (or longer, depending on which is desired), and more assured than I could ever hope to myself.

It’s not that I want to be perfect in any particular field—that would be boring and, in all fairness as a 23-year-old, ultra-lame—but the unabashed maleness in me aches at my inadequacy. This realization corresponds with a diminishment of my manhood; if I can’t be “top dog,” I might as well be a “bitch” instead. The recognition that I am not the best at playing ping-pong has utterly deballed me. I am ballless.

That triple-l is very intriguing…

Focus. Goddamnit, keep your head in the game, Slattery.

See, this whole concept of “not being the best” should have been instilled upon me at an early age. In fact, my parents are not to blame at all for my narcissism. There was one night when I was about 8 years old and I was in the kitchen with my mother. She was doing dishes after dinner and I was keeping her company by singing whatever songs came to my head (Disney jingles and boy band ballads were commonplace at this age). Finally, stroking my own ego, I asked my maternal guardian, the protector of my pride, the only infallible woman I knew at the time, if I would ever be a famous singer. And without ceasing her scrubbing, without looking at my reflection in the darkened window in front of her, without so much as pausing to consider the possibility, she said, “I doubt it, sweetie.” In a world where parents incessantly informed their offspring that they can be anything in the world they want to be, I was denied the future that I wanted for myself in that particular two-week period.

My mother may sound cold for telling me that. She may sound rude and uninspiring, but I have to tell you it was good for me to hear. It was a wake-up call, a slap in the face of my self-esteem, essentially saying, “What makes you so special?” Above all, this was an entirely true statement—I was not a good singer.

I will not be the best vocalist in the world, nor will my love-making abilities drastically improve, unless something happens outright Kama Sutric before I settle down. My handwriting is how it will always be, sloppy. I can cook, but not noticeably well.

Thoughts like these add up in the container in my brain labeled SELF-LOATHING until the needle jumps from “Okay with it” to “You Don’t Impress Anyone” to “Go Cry About It, Worthless Ass.” It’s stupid, childish, petty. Obvious. I understand this about myself and about the world, the fact that it is damn near impossible to be the best at anything. Maniacs spend their entire lives training to be #1 at any random thing, destroying friendships, jeopardizing their health, and missing out on Breaking Bad. And for what? To be the person only known for their ability to swallow more glass than anyone else?

Yes, I want to be that guy.

The whole process of humbling myself is fruitless, though, because as soon as I calm myself down—you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay you’re not the best and that’s okay—I inevitably consider the other people out there who could handle this immaturity so much better than I could.

Back to square one.

So, what do I do about this? A common suggestion is to consider the positive; at least I’m not the worst at anything.

Fuck that. I hate that I can’t be the best at failing, too.

Do I just live with this? Everyone else seems to have come to peace with this suggestion, going about his or her business in unexceptional bliss. How do they do it? I may never know, and I guess I have to suck it up, admit defeat, and join the ranks of the mediocre. It’ll be a difficult psychological transition but perhaps it will be good for me to finally let it all go. I could stop caring so much and wear mismatched socks or grow a beard. Lord knows that my facial fuzz is a sure sign of my insufficiency in the most basic of human skills—I can't even grow hair correctly.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have the word “ballless” to study.