“Watch the world from the sidelines”
-Phoebe Bridgers
I have great, swooping fantasies of being talented to the point where everything is guaranteed.
On multiple occasions, I have found myself in the presence of people with this gift—athletes who monopolize the gold medal race, students whose papers have never seen the stain of red ink, and girls who make a mockery of me with their very existence.
Some of them are my friends.
But most of them are my replacements.
These beings of unparalleled aptitude are Tens. They are the cause of my sleepless nights, the catalyst of my dissatisfaction, and the reason for my futile relentlessness. For them, I bite my nails on the harrowing sidelines, a boundary that has never constrained them. For them, I scour and scan and search for purpose, eyes darting to filled positions and occupied ranks. For them, I wish I could be the best. I wish I could be a Ten.
Nothing is guaranteed as a Six or Seven; only the indifferent fact that I am slightly above average, but never good enough to be the most decorated. I have made it on the best teams—the state-title holders, the district champions, the gold-medal winners. Yet, their greatness could never be used as a synonym for my mediocrity. I am not the leading goal-scorer, the best playmaker, or the best student. My place remains among the other second-string humans, where I grapple in a distorted place of acceptance and crippling greed.
I am the Ten’s watered-down standby and the understudy of everything I have ever dreamed of.
In fleeting moments, I try to convince myself I could stand among them. I get a taste of their unceasing glory and I let myself hallucinate that I could ever be greater than just okay. I beat compliments like a dead horse; perhaps if I hold onto it, it will come back alive once more.
I know, deep down, my limited mobility only leads downwards. My wimpy talents, the deficient capacity of a Six or Seven, are easily rivaled and even more easily superseded. It is here that I have come to the stark realization that—no matter what my parents, my coaches, my teachers, and my mentors have used to dissuade me of my mundanity—hard work doesn’t beat talent. Hard work exists simply to prove that there is an undeniable superiority in being a talented Ten.
I hate to sound so morbidly negative all the time; it is not my intention. I would much rather classify this supposed-defeatism by the pillars of reality. I simply know where my place is. I know which percentile I lie in, which number I am defined by, and which classifications I will never outlive: Decent. Alright. Run of the mill. Moderate. Typical. Okay.
Average.
And the thing about all of those titles—the designations of false hope and disappointment—is that I always want more, and more, and more. More recognition. More time. More happiness. More satisfaction.
I know this is simply the ramblings of an envious girl marred by her own, self-set expectations—crushed dreams, unanswered wishes, and failure. But, in all honesty, I hope this can serve as my answer to anyone who has ever told me that my time will come.
It will not.
And perhaps, one day, I will be more than okay with that fact.
