"The Best" Curse

When I was a kid, and the family got together at Christmas (or any other major holiday), we often spent time playing card games like Poker or Euchre. (I am from Indiana, after all.) Despite the teams being made up of fun-loving family members, it never failed: the competitive edge ultimately got to us all and half the room ended up with someone in their face saying, "In your FACE!" Sure, it was silly at the time, but many of us looked forward to those special game nights and, for me, this was especially true, regardless of which side of the trash-talking I ended up on. In those moments, while they were happening, I felt like life was actually being enjoyed -- appreciated even -- because we all felt passionate about what we were doing in the moment we were doing it in. We really soaked up all aspects of what a family game night should be about: having fun, challenging our minds and simply spending time with one another, everyone in the same room all at the same time.

After my father passed and an unrelated -- and unexpected -- feud divided my family in half, I found myself alone last year, many states away from them all in Alabama, during the holidays. Truth be told, all I wanted was to just be alone. You see, it was early November 2010, I was getting ready to begin training for NPC Northern KY so I tried my best to see this scenario as an opportunity to focus on something I was passionate about: competing, without anyone or any event pulling me in the wrong direction. What I didn't realize, at the time, was that a part of me knew I was distancing myself because I was afraid of facing the fact that things had changed -- that family events wouldn't feel or sound the same way for a very long time, if ever. The other factor was that, in order to go back to Indiana from nine hours away, I would've sacrificed gas money, time off work and probably lots of tears trying to decipher how to get members of my family on speaking terms again. In many ways, however, cooking a small casserole and sitting on my couch by myself was just easier. If I didn't go, I wouldn't be disappointed; therefore, I could still hold onto the great memories of holidays past and leave it at that.

But something strange happens when you try to prevent yourself from feeling pain: you often feel the pain greater. Instead of moving forward, thinking of ways to make the next holiday better or substituting the old great people with new great people, you get stuck... with no people. In many ways, a scenario like this is needed because you realize how you don't want to live your life. After spending one Thanksgiving and one Christmas with no one around me, I knew I had it out of my system. I would definitely not spend another holiday all alone, with no one to share it with. Once I made this declaration, everything else seemed easy. This year, since I was back in Indiana, as a resident and as someone in need of a fresh start, I once again looked forward to the holiday season. I felt like putting up a tree; I felt like baking a cake to take to a family get-together; I felt like hanging stockings and I felt like filling them with gifts. I felt my motivation to participate in the holidays and that part of life -- that really important part of life, in general -- had been renewed. So, at this Thanksgiving, I had turkey and pie and cookies and ham, instead of eating a single item for one. And, in place of perching alone on a tiny couch in an even tinier apartment, I made three distinct stops to three different households in order to be with everyone on the same day. Since I couldn't change the way things were, I simply made some adjustments and found a way to move forward.

When I think about getting back into competition this year, I can't help but think about those nail-biting card nights my family used to have. Participating in the 2011 Northern KY Championships was one of the best days of my entire life, if that even seems comprehensible. The feeling I had about the experience, as well as getting together with so many people who threw themselves one-hundred percent into "the game," made me realize there's a whole life out there I hadn't lived in a very long time. Part of the reason my show in 2011 was the first I'd competed in since 2001 was because I had such a good experience the first time around, I didn't want to mess it up and be disappointed. Instead, I not only trumped that show from 10 years prior, I trumped a lot of other activities I had been involved in that really meant a lot to me. How often does that happen? How often does your best memory get trumped by a "new" best memory? The reality is, it doesn't happen often, I'll admit. But when it does happen -- and I can vauge for this firsthand -- it's such an amazing feeling, you'll have no choice but to accept nothing less than the quest for another moment just like it.

The other side of this coin, the problem that many of us run into, is what I personally call "The Best" Curse. It's a dark cloud that hangs over you for no reason at all after you've made it to the top or crossed the finish line. It's the part of you that says, "Nothing will ever be better than this moment, so I don't want to ruin it by doing it again, and possibly, not as well the second time around." Sure, I didn't win my division at Northern KY 2011, but it was a huge accomplishment for me. I worked two jobs and still managed to train 6-7 days a week for 3 months; I lost close to 30 lbs that had been weighing on me for far too long; I opened the door to a life I hadn't lived for many years and so on. So, for me, it was one of the best days of my life. When you feel that great and an experience gives you an emotional high like that, you can't help but stand there and think to yourself, "What now?" But what kind of motivator would I be to let you sit there and figure it out the hard way when I've already learned it the hard way. The reality is, if you don't find someway to move forward, you move backwards, and it's not a steady decline; it's a snowball effect. Once you tell yourself you'd had your best moment and you want to completely remove yourself from it to protect what you feel, you find yourself sitting there with nothing at all.

And that's where I'm at today: your stereotypical off-season dieter who's practically back to square one. In February, I was hopeful that the whole year would just keep getting better as I improved my physique and increased my intensity. Instead, I became a typical tragedy of someone who lost their motivation and gained all kinds of unhealthy cravings. I pretty much gave up on myself. The pressure to be better and look better after already working my butt off literally was just too much for me. I felt myself, and that day I held so dear to my heart, slipping away from me with each day and week that I saw another pound creep up on the scale. I had been presented with a choice after that last competition was over: all or nothing; take it or leave it. I chose to leave it and have nothing again because I was afraid of what would happen next. Would I replace a wonderful memory with just a mediocre one? I didn't even give myself a chance to fail... I just took the option. So now, as I write this, I'm aware that Northern KY 2012 will not be in my reach because I couldn't get my head straight in time to make it happen. That doesn't mean I can't go and watch from the audience, alone, this time around. In fact, I think it would be good for me to get that out of my system -- not as a punishment, but as a reminder that sitting on the sidelines has never been satisfying for me. I guarantee you, however, that it's only going to take one time in that position to flip me back to the "good" side of the coin.

One family tradition I hadn't been able to participate in for years was making the forty minute drive up to the country to see my dad's family. Ever year, for as long as I can remember, I've either been out of state or too busy spending time with my immediate family to make a detour in that direction. This year, my mom asked if I wanted to go with her to see that particular group and, of course, I did. After all, since my dad passed, being with them is the closest thing we have to having him with us again. The last time I had seen them was the memorial and it was certainly time, two years later, that we enjoy a more uplifting moment with them. So, around 4pm on Christmas day, mom and I said goodbye to the part of the family we were with last to make that drive up together. On the way home, during random conversation between a mother and her daughter, my mom said to me, "You know, I've never really liked Christmas Day," and it was a revelation that really caught me off guard. When I asked her what she meant by that, she said, "Oh, you know, it's just so anti-climatic. You spend all of this time before Christmas running around, buying gifts for people and anticipating the day to come that you've been preparing for... By the time Christmas day rolls around, the whole experience is almost over."

And she's right, my mom. Of course she's right. It's just far more honest than most people would like to admit. Sure, when I was a kid, I enjoyed spending time with my family, playing cards and watching all of the classic holiday movies, but at the end of the day, Christmas Day, I never knew how to make that feeling continue. Sure, I'd mention to relatives months later at another event that we needed to pull out the old cards and give them a good shuffle, but if everyone was tired or we just didn't have enough people, there I was, all alone, anticipating the next time I would get the chance to play the game. The problem is, I can't remember the last time I played cards and I can't foresee the next time that group will ever be in the same room together again. I can either cry about it, or find new people to play with. As mom and I drove home that day, talking about life and lamenting that the holidays flew by way too fast, I looked at my mom and said, "You still want to go to the casino?" Instantly, my mom flashed me a big smile and said, "Heck yeah, I do. I'm feeling lucky." Thus, a new holiday tradition was born. Mom and I together, moving forward through the country -- and through life -- would find a new game to play, whether others ultimately joined us or not.

So, ready or not, I've decided this year to enter the NPC Indianapolis show in June and though it's not the same event I competed in last year, it is the site of the first-ever competition I did back in 2001. It's a whole new scene, a fresh start and a chance for me to get back in the game and see what else this big world of competing has to offer. Now, that doesn't mean I can't go back to Northern KY next year -- and I'm sure I will, in fact -- it just means that I'm moving on and not letting life get a head start on me. Every year moving forward, at least once in that year, I want to create a moment so great that I don't have to look back far in my memory to say, "That was the best day of my life." And even if I can't say that, at least I rolled the dice and tried to bring the luck back in my corner again. In reality, that's all we really can do...

Because if we sit around and think about "the old days" and how great things were, we're letting life get "the best" of us. We'll be cursed from that point forward, never knowing if we could have actually won the competition eventually or maybe met someone new that provided a better insight to the situation than a previous peer did. So as much as I'm not a fan of "resolutions" and fresh starts, I am an advocate for moving on because I've done it time and time again and each time, I haven't been disappointed. On top of that, there's no way another ten years will pass before I have another best day, that I can say for sure. And no matter what comes of it, no matter what side of the trash talk or the coin I fall on, either way, living -- truly living and giving it all you got -- is the only way you can play that hand and win.