First

The world we live in is unconsciously revolving around millions of dichotomies. Sun/moon, yes/no, light/dark. As much as I like to embrace the idea of second, third, and fourteenth place medals and awards, there will always be a thin line between first and last. Remember the saying that crusty, disappointing old white man muttered into an empty beer can at noon? “If you’re not first, you’re last” is somehow beginning to make sense.

Suddenly you’re analyzing that dichotomy in every situation or possible situation you’re in and you’re wondering if being last is actually worse than being first.

Sometimes, being first doesn’t mean winning. Maybe I jumped the gun or was too soon and burned out. Is it possible that being last isn’t failing or missing your chance?

Suddenly you’re not a kid anymore and love isn’t cute, it’s a chore and a weakness and you’re told that saying “I love you” first is bad. You’re supposed to wait. Maybe never say it. I fell for this trick and I regret it.

I fell in love only four weeks after talking to him. I cried because for the first time I wasn’t scared of getting attached or being hurt and I was so amazed that someone could make me feel so euphoric. I cried because I realized that the love I felt was healthy. I called my best friend in tears, asking if I was having an emotional breakdown and he laughed sweetly and told me that it was good how I felt.

Three months later and he tells me he loves me. I still hadn’t told him. For some unknown reason, I froze and began to panic. Someone had told me that they love me in a romantic sense. This was not an incredibly common occurrence, nor an average one. For an hour I pondered what my response should be. I felt like if I said “I love you too” I would be transported into high-school me and suddenly be some sappy and moon-eyed girl who only says “I love you too” because I expected to love that person back. That wasn’t the case. I do love him. Still, an hour had passed and I hadn’t responded. I didn’t want to tell him how long I had loved him or make it meaningless, so I opted for the only thing I knew I could do: quote Star Wars. I sent him a picture of Princess Leia saying “I know” in response to Han telling her he loved her, and hoped for the best. He understood the reference.

Then I felt ashamed. I had been last and he had been first for something that should not be timed or planned or restricted. Had I made him feel as if my feelings for him were not as deep as his, or not returned until he verbalized them? Part of me wonders what would have happened if I said it first and not last.

Whenever I think of being first or last, I think of running a long distance to reach a finish line; a competition. But I am not competing. In most things I do, I am not competing. I’m a shitty runner to boot.

I’ll float instead.