I’m Aiming For 200th Place

Or: Lagom and Me

I started running track and cross country in middle school (we called it junior high back then). It was easy for me to run a few laps without hyperventilating, because I’d been going to the track with my father every Sunday for years, circling slowly until he said we were done. After, we’d go to Potomac bagels for poppy seed bagels with scallion cream cheese—always the dangling carrot. Associating running with pleasure gave me an instant love for it, with one caveat—I didn’t want to run fast.

Cross country suited me because it was about distance, not speed. At that age, you’re expected to achieve both. The goal was to win the race, or at least place in the top tier. Only being “fast” and a “winner” earned you the ribbon or the medal and the accompanying glory for your coach and school. Anyone who watched these races could see that the front runners barely broke a sweat. The middle and back of the pack runners were the ones huffing and puffing and working against our innate talents to make it to the finish line. We deserved the medals!

No matter what I did, throughout middle school and then high school, running cross country, indoor and outdoor track, and then even a senior year marathon, I finished in the middle of the pack.

The highlight of my high school six-milers was a three-mile pitstop at Cathy and Beth’s, where we’d spoon Breyers Mint Chip ice cream into our mouths. This was the joy of life, completely lost on those hard-driving winners rushing to complete their runs. Who needed accolades from the coach when I could pat my belly and smile? (Of course, that’s my preferred version of past me when in truth, I desperately envied the “winners.” I felt like a true loser when I failed to circle my hands around my thighs like the others, due to my preference for leisurely runs with ice cream breaks over speed.)

The summer after our junior year, my friends and I decided (or were persuaded by the coach) to go to a week-long running camp to improve our times. We were to run twice a day, and to keep up with the pack, which meant going faster than I wanted. I had my heavy, crampy period the whole time and spent the week moaning, “I’m MIS-erable” and chanting,“I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t” as I pounded up the steep hills.

Misery aside, when I got back in the fall, I found myself effortlessly in the front of the pack during pre-season practice runs. Hi, Courtney! Hi, Beth! Finally, I could run at least a few strides with the “winners.” By the time the first meet of the season rolled around, I was bored of running fast. I missed the laughter and gossip and “don’t we suck?” that running with the lagging pack allowed. The key word being with.

During my brief stint as a wannabe-winner, my goal was to beat people one runner at a time, like I was in some angry video game, gobbling up my opponents. This winning thing just didn’t suit my nature. I had a huge crush on Kris, who smoked and drank and still won every race by a mile, and was happy tracking his stride as he flashed past. I could admire people without wanting to be them.

And so here I am, at age 59. I still don’t aim to win. I don’t run marathons or ski moguls or bungee jump off cliffs, holding hands with my partner. You’ll mostly find me on my couch, reading, writing, drawing or petting my dog, Javi the Havanese. I recently took a values test. Unsurprisingly, my current top three are: creativity, calm and inner harmony. Not winning. Not rushing. And definitely not speeding ahead of anyone or anything. A slow, calm walk is my happy place. Luckily, Javi’s idea of a good walk is half a block of intense sniffing and stopping to roll around in the grass. To me, inner harmony means your insides matching your outsides and I think I’m staying pretty true to that.

The Swedes have a word for a way of life: it’s called Lagom. It means, “just the right amount,” “not too much, not too little,” or “sufficient.” It stands against the capitalist way of being more, having more, optimizing; of winning. To my Swedish mother, the word ambitious was an insult.

“Vyyy is he so amBITious?” she would say, wrinkling her nose in what looked like disgust before taking another sip of her black coffee and a modest bite of cardamom cake. My favorite thing to do with her was sit for hours, quietly eating cake and sipping coffee. Occasionally sighing. Doing nothing. (If you haven’t read the Mr. Putter and Tabby children’s book series by Cynthia Rylant, do yourself a favor…it’s pure bliss—two senior citizen neighbors and their animals eat cake, sip tea and watch their animals).

To me, the most dreaded phrase in the English language is: “Hurry up!” My husband used to joke that as soon as he said we had to hurry, I would deliberately slow down. I like to get to the airport hours early to wander around and sit, watching people pass by. It’s not that I do everything slowly: I eat fast, and talk fast. I just don’t see the benefit in rushing, or winning.

Sometimes, I beat myself up for this; for not striving or even wanting to be a winner. Do I want to be a loser? Am I a lazy middle-of-the-roader? Or am I just me? But it stands to reason that we can’t all be winners, just like we can’t all be leaders (don’t get me started on that annoying college application lingo—everyone MUST be a leader!). For someone to win, someone else has to “lose.” And lots of people need to be in the middle of the pack. Maybe we can reframe losing as a generous act, like holding the door for someone, even when you get there first.

I think from now on, I’ll say I’m aiming to come in 200th place. And if my mom were still alive, she’d briefly turn from her cake and conversation to cheer me on with a subtle nod and a smile from the sidelines.

How about you? How do you feel about winning and the concept of Lagom?

(A huge thank you to Julie Rosen, my great friend and an awesome person who reads my pieces and saves me from myself! We all need editors! Yay for readers! Any extraneous words are things I added after she pared it down.)