One of my three children, who shall remain nameless, was somewhat obsessed with picking his or her nose when he or she was young. I remember telling said child time and time again that nose picking is nasty and telling said child to stop, to no avail. In fact, said child took nose picking to a whole new level when he or she would pick his or her nose and wipe the boogies on the edge of his or her pillowcase in a perfectly straight line, hence the nickname that was bestowed upon said child ... Booger-I (pronounced "Booger-Eye") Picker-I (pronounced "Picker-Eye"). Before you ask, I don't know why that was the chosen nickname for the nose-picking kiddo ... it just was. And yes, said now adult child still receives a great deal of razzing from his or her siblings concerning the pillowcase booger lineup.
I know you may find this hard to believe considering my current athletic prowess, but it wasn't until my late junior high years that I was actually considered to be a good athlete. In fact, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I was more of a dork than a jock when I was a kid. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to be good at sports ... I desperately wanted to be the one who was first pick for the kickball team at recess rather than the embarrassed, skinny, shy little kid who was without fail always the one last chosen. Yep, I was that kid ... the kid the team captains dreaded having on their team. I remember watching the group of kids get smaller and smaller as the captains made their choices ... I remember wanting to scream at the top of my lungs, "Pick me! Pick me! Please, please, please pick me!"
Now lest you go feeling all sorry for me, I would remind you that I ended up being the best second basewoman on a softball team that won several championships, and ... this one's for you, Matt and Brad ... I played a mean game of tennis in my day. But ... but ... but ... I had to work hard and practice day in and day out to become a jock ... I wasn't by any means a natural-born athlete. I've thought a lot about those days over the years ... those days of not being picked for the teams at recess ... and I've come to the conclusion that those times of rejection and ridicule actually made me more determined to try with all my might to get better. It was not being picked that made me spend countless hours shooting basketball on the driveway ... it was not being picked that made me smack a tennis ball against a concrete wall until it was too dark to see ... it was not being picked that made me throw a baseball a million times to one of those old-fashioned pitch-back net thingies in the backyard. It was not being picked that made me try harder ... it was not being picked that made me all the more determined to get better ... it was not being picked that made me appreciate it so much more when I was.
As I drove home from work on this damp, chilly, gray evening, I couldn't help but think about how some things never change. In so many ways, we're still the little kids on the kickball court at recess begging not to be the last one picked. The teams are different, but the feelings and emotions are the same ... we don't want to be that kid ... the kid no one wants ... the kid no one sees ... the kid no one appreciates ... the kid no one believes in ... the kid no one thinks is good enough. Not one of us wants to be that kid, and yet we've probably all either been there at one time or another in our lives or are still there even today. Looking back, I'm not sure why I didn't just throw in the towel on playing kickball ... perhaps it was because I was destined to learn some valuable lessons about perseverance ... about being different ... about not giving up. Or perhaps it was because the teachers made me play ... maybe it was because they saw something in me that I didn't see in myself ... maybe.
Pick me ... two very powerful little words those are ... pick me.
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