I had a realization the other day when I was talking to someone.
Just out of the blue, it hit me.
A conversational epiphany, I suppose.
But throughout the conversation, this person kept trying to one up me.
If I said something, they responded with, “Oh, how wonderful! I have done ___”
Fill in the blank with something of greater success, greater magnitude or greater sorrow – take your pick.
This person was trying — and succeeding — at one-upping me.
I didn’t catch it at first and thought they were generally engaging in conversation.
I am not even sure if the person was aware they were doing it.
But even my dull observations were one-upped.
Every time I made a comment, she had to see my boring stat and raise it to mundane.
Finally, I had to just smile and walk away. I was emotionally exhausted and didn’t like the competitive game I had not agreed to play.
This, of course, is not a new phenomenon. But it has grown considerably worse over the years.
Why do some people feel the need to best someone else? Is it that important to get one more word in, to have something better than their friends?
Since when did we live our lives in perpetual comparison and competition?
Granny dealt with it with one of her sisters.
“I swunny,” she began one day. “It doesn’t matter what I am dealing with, that sister of mine has got it worse. Or better, depending on which way she is trying to irritate me.”
“Why does she do that?” I asked.
“Who knows. Because she is a miserable human being and she is trying to make herself feel special by trying to out do me no matter what it is. If something good happens to me, she’s had better. If something bad happens, hers is worse.”
I chalked that up to just a lifelong sibling rivalry but have found it happens quite often between folks that are related. And sometimes, even more often between those we consider friends.
I don’t get it.
Can’t we just be happy for others, or commiserate with them if need be, and let them have their moment?
Do we have to go around trying to compare ourselves to everyone else?
Granny would tell you Facebook was possibly to blame.
Before she passed away, she blamed the social media platform for all of societies ill; at least she was finally giving Madonna a break.
She may be right.
I caught myself seeing someone’s status update recently and felt like I wanted to scream my accomplishments, too – didn’t my stuff matter?
Mama assured me my stuff did matter, but maybe that person’s stuff was equally important.
“Can’t you be happy for them?” she asked.
I balked at a response. I was happy for them. Wasn’t I?
“What if they told you that in person? What would your response be?” she asked.
“I’d congratulate them,” I said.
“Then why do you feel the need to shout what you’ve done now?”
I wasn’t sure.
Part of me felt like I wanted someone to see I had done something, too. I wanted them to be proud of me, or to applaud what I had accomplished. I wanted it to be known that while they had something great happen, so had I.
I did refrain; I am my mother’s daughter, after all, so I knew to take the higher road.
But I still felt a pang of rivalry. It wasn’t quite jealousy or envy. No, this was some other offense, that wanted to poo-poo all over whatever another had done and scream, “But look at me! I did this!”
Just like I had someone do to me.
It’s an ugly, horrible, bitter trespass that has no redeeming qualities.
I hated it when someone did the one-up thing with me, so why would I get the hankering to do the same thing?
Mama reminded me Pop used to do it, standing around Kelly Lumber Yard, with his buddies all bragging about their grandchildren. He loved to save his turn to the very last, so he could tell them how his only granddaughter had made straight A’s.
“That’s different,” I told her. “That was the equivalent of the biggest fish they caught but instead of fish, they used grandkids. And it just feels different.”
“Why does it feel different, Kitten?” Mama asked. “Because someone was bragging on you?”
Ouch. I didn’t see that one coming.
But that wasn’t the reason.
Maybe it was the context of the situation. When those men gathered ‘round with their cups of coffee and red link biscuits waiting on their construction supplies, they knew they were getting in a braggart’s folly. They also wanted to share what their grandchildren had done – not them. It wasn’t about them but about someone they loved.
And that is vastly different than my recent experience.
The person in question had a history of no matter what I was talking about, she always had to one-up. It wasn’t just me, it was everyone.
It was a matter of belittling everything anyone else had ever done or thought about doing.
It circled back to Granny’s earlier comment about her sister doing the very thing to her because she was miserable. At least in Granny’s opinion, she was.
“You know what Granny told her sister the last time she tried that one-up game with her?” Mama asked.
“What?” Inquiring minds truly did want to know.
“She told her that sometimes it wasn’t always about her,” Mama said.
“And sometimes, I think that’s good reminder for us all.”