My daughter had a gym meet Saturday. This is our first year with competitive gymnastics. And when experienced gym parents would
talk about being nervous before performances, I would think, “Why would you be
nervous?” And then I went to her first
meet, and I almost had a heart attack. I’m
watching, and my daughter performs, and her first score goes up, and I’m like,
“I can’t handle this!! It’s too much!!” And my sweet seven-year daughter is
just having fun being with her friends in gymnastics and is handling the whole
thing like a champ and is chillin’. So I’ve got to play the “chillin’ parent”
part. Because I often have to fake
coolness. But I can’t fake it for too
long. I am not sophisticated. And when I’m around sophisticated people there
is no faking it. To make up for the
sophisticated silences (that come from those people during conversations) I often
spill my life story, and I talk about my insecurities, and weaknesses, and
social security numbers, and stuff I just didn’t mean to say. Because I just can’t handle that much coolness. And there is a sophisticated gym mom who
keeps talking to me, and she’s great, and a friend, but when there’s a high
anxiety situation, with cool chillin’ people, and then I’m thrown in the
mix…not a good combination. I overcompensate for how I’m really feeling, like, I'm about to have a heart attack, but I'm want to pretend that I'm feeling fancy and carefree!
So my daughter falls off the beam during her performance, and I yell
“It’s okay sweetie, as long as you’re having fun!” And they show the score and
I’m like, “Hey turn that score upside down and it looks like a smile!!” And people are looking at me and I feel the need to crank my "no worries" attitude up a notch and say, “Boy
oh boy, all this gymnastics makes me hungry!
Anyone want a burger? Burgers all
around for everyone! You get a burger
and you get a burger and you get a burger!
I’ll be right back, I’m going to get burgers for all of you fine
people!” And then to my sophisticated friend, I’m like, “Text me my
daughter’s next scores...the lower the better!!!” because like a magnet my
lame comments go to her. And she just
looks at me, and I can’t help it but I say, “Did I tell you about my last
doctor’s appointment? It was a
doozy!”
