My youngest announced the other day that if my husband Doo and I were thrown into the “Hunger Games” with all of her aunts and uncles, I’d be the most likely to emerge the victor. “Yes!” I shouted, fist-pumping. Oh, but wait. Is that a good thing? “Explain yourself.” So she proceeded to elaborate on how I could defeat 10 men taller than 6 feet and nine women who’ve survived pregnancy and childbirth.
For starters, I apparently have the cold-blooded temperament necessary to deliver fatal blows to my opponents. “You’re not emotional, Mom. You’ll do what needs to be done and move on.” Hmmm. I guess that’s a positive.
Second, she felt that with my ultra-competitive nature, I simply wouldn’t allow another tribute to win. I do recall once telling Doo that I’d rather die than let him beat me in a triathlon. I wasn’t joking. If I’m gonna lose, he’ll literally have to leap over my dead body to cross that finish line first.
“Plus, you’re really tough mentally and physically. I don’t think you’d last long in ‘Naked and Afraid’ because you don’t have the body fat, but you’re scrappy. Hunger, dehydration, indiscriminate shankings … none of that would bother you.” Again with the soullessness. Compliment or criticism? I honestly couldn’t tell.
But clearly she’d given this considerable thought, because next up were the many reasons everyone else would lose. Too nice, too needy, too social, too cerebral. In her mind, I’m the perfect blend of resourcefulness, resilience and readiness to kill.
In these uncertain and seemingly apocalyptic times, it’s somewhat comforting to know where I stand. “Hunger Games” victor! Peace out.