Sorry, Tommers. That makes me laugh, though, because I promise I almost said on IM yesterday morning, "gotta go give my arms a workout!" That's gotta be one of my favorite offshore jokes. Well, "Who's buyin' lunch today, guys?" is up there too. It's a tough call.

Watching the Scripps National Spelling Bee on ESPN yesterday reminded me scarily of Science Fair: the same generic plastic name badges with the flimsy, sateen ribbon hanging limply off, as if the gravitational pull of the earth is somehow stronger between the core and our ribbons. It's also stronger between the earth's core and our glasses, which seem to forever be slipping down our noses, requiring us to hastily, with energetic nerves, jam our over-sized spectacles back up to where our eyebrows meet in that space above our eyes. Our shirts are over-sized, too, and puff out in awkward angles from our pants. Our pants are too short (there might be a flood at the awards ceremony), and too big, and too yellow-brown. Our belts are pinched too tight (to hold up the too-big pants), and our shoes tap nervously on the floor, giving away the fear we all try to shroud with big words, big laughs, and camaraderie-filled smiles over sharing this experience.

Everyone stares intently at everyone else, when they're looking away: they aren't really that good. They're scared, too. They can't beat me (can they?). They just can't. They couldn't have worked as hard as me (could they have?). I just have to win, I just have to! And then the doubt seeps in: Well, there were those few days I should have taken a couple extra readings. And I really should have done my measurements with more specific digits. And - Oh God! - remember when I ran that regression and took the outliers out, what if that was WRONG?! And in those moments, the value of our little, fifteen-year-long lives is in complete question, and we don't know whether our parents will ever say "I love you" again or if that cute boy in class will ever look our way again (Oh God! Jimmy!). OR IF WE'LL GET B's FROM HERE ON OUT!!!

So we clap politely when we hear our competitor's names called out, (in the distance) "In third place, Jane Dough!" because that's the grace our Moms drilled into us for these types of occasions, but inside we're gloating with trembling nerves since it means we're both still in the running and eliminated from the possibility of getting one more prize up for grabs. In the Bee, that dinging! bell is the demarcation of the later rounds; in the Fair, that Name! is the continued defining of young pupil's science dreams.

My emotions haven't reveled in that sort of non-boy-induced tumult since. I kind of miss it, and maybe that's why I identify with the sport of the Bee, and why I like watching it with a sadistic inner glee in seeing each kid fall.