Is it competitive in here, or is it just me?

For someone who never really played competitive sports as a child, I’ve got a competitive streak like you wouldn’t believe.

I guess that’s not counting the countless years of dance team and all the Saturdays spent at high school pom competitions. Yes, they were competitions, but they were based on artistry and precision and sparkly costumes. There wasn’t a lot of head-to-head competition. No slide tackling. Not even dance offs, really.

But I dare you to find a more ruthless atmosphere than the behind-the-scenes of a high school pom competition. Seriously. There were mind games that would’ve made the KGB proud. Deep-seated hatreds that rivaled the Hatfields and McCoys*. Mean girl looks that could stop a pom-pon girl dead in her tracks.

(Do you want to mess with this? Didn't think so.)

Of course, we all went on to the same colleges and then joined the same sororities and laughed about the good old days of pom competitions. But the insatiable need to be first remained.

Or maybe my competitive side stems from years of trying to move up the ranks from second-favorite child. Yes, I know being the youngest and the only daughter, I should be a shoo-in for #1 offspring. But I’m not. It’s a pretty well-known fact that Andy clenched that title a long time ago. Ask him how many cars he’s been given and compare it to the ’97 Escort I drove for 7 years**. The guy went to Stanford for grad school (right around the same time I announced I wanted to be an art major), and when he came home, things got a little Prodigal Son at the Essary household.

“This is Andy, a LEED-certified structural engineer with a masters degree from Stanford. And this is the other one, sometimes we accidentally call her Jill, but her name’s Brenna. She’s unemployed right now, but when she does work, she works in advertising.”

(You’re welcome, Andy, for making this so easy for you.)

Coming in number two for the last 25 years, I’ve spent the majority of my life being scrappy and fighting my way up to first. Or at least a closer second. And I’m guessing that probably has a thing or two to do with my over-zealous need to win.

Okay, so I had a point here. This whole competitive thing. I didn’t really realize I had it in me until college (coincidentally around the same time I realized I was good at taps***), and nothing brings it out like meeting another writer.

Oh, you’re a copywriter? I’m Googling you asap to check out your portfolio. You’ve got a blog, too? Don’t worry, I plan on reading every entry. Oh, you’re creeped out that some one you don’t even really know will be hanging on your every blogged word? Sorry about that.

Maybe it’s my overwhelming need to be liked that’s morphed into the need to be liked the most. Maybe I’m still harboring all sorts of childhood resentments and feel like I have to come in first. Maybe I’m just a pain in the ass. I don’t know, whatever. But I really seem to thrive on this unspoken/imaginary competition.

So thanks. For writing things or for having an online portfolio or for putting up with me when I get all crazy competitive. And I’m sorry. For knowing way too much about your personal life because I stalk your blog or for having every campaign in your portfolio memorized and for being this crazy competitive in the first place.



*Everyone knows you hired a professional choreographer, St. Charles. The jig is up.
**Rest in peace, Scooter. You were the best car ever.
***Don’t you dare call it flippy cup.