This Thursday, my love for tacos will hit its apex. I’m entering a taco-eating contest. I even whatsapped my buddy yesterday to tell him I was officially in it.
No, I am not a competitive eater. Although, I always manage to be the first one to finish my plate whenever I’m eating with others. Yes, I do understand there’s a good chance after I finish the contest, my love for tacos will morph into hate. But none of these things matter. What matters most to me is I do well, because if I do well, women will be lining up outside of the restaurant with Tums in hand. I also whatsapped my sister, jokingly warning her to not judge me if I puke afterwards.
I’m kidding.
I actually don’t want any woman I know to come to the competition. I understand they are there for support and to cheer me on, but there’s one overwhelming fear I won’t be able to shake. The fear of losing in front of a woman who has come to root for me and thus never getting fed tacos again. I even whatsapped a friend asking if that fear was insane.
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I know, I know. It’s just tacos. What kind of women would ever look at a man differently simply because he didn’t win first prize in some taco-eating contest? But see, such questions don’t apply to any competitive scenario, even ones as trivial as being the first person to finish a whole platter of tacos. I whatsapped my coach earlier this week asking for taco-eating tips.
The only thing men like doing more than winning is winning in front of their woman. The only thing they hate more than losing is losing in front of their woman. Just ask any man who plays video games in his spare time. I whatsapped my guy friends to compare stories—they all agreed.
Let’s say he’s playing a game of Madden football and his woman decides to go ahead and watch him play for a couple of minutes. She doesn’t want to play herself, and she just doesn’t want to watch him play the whole game. All she wants to do is get a peek at this THING that has her man so enthralled everyday. So in order to follow, she simply asks, “Which team are you?” Her man answers, and now he knows she’s going to watch him play for a couple of minutes. I whatsapped my buddy mid-game once just to vent about this exact scenario.
His team is on offense. She says, “So you have the ball?” He says, “Yep, and I’m about to bomb it right into the end zone. Watch.” Now she’s interested because her man is about to win. Right?
He does his thing on the controllers, his quarterback is back to pass, the ball is in the air. It’s going in the right direction. It’s coming down and INTERCEPTION! The computer has just totally hated on this man, and made him a laughingstock in his own house. The man’s girl chuckles to herself, and goes back to whatever she’s doing. She won’t say anything because she knows her man is mad. Now’s not the time. The time will come later, when she calls him and asks him if he wants to hang out, and he says, “Okay, let me just finish this game of Madden.” Then she will say, “I don’t know why I have to wait for a game you suck at.” Meanwhile, this time, he’s actually winning but she doesn’t see that nor does she care. She just remembers the time he was losing. I whatsapped a friend after one of these games just to tell him, “This is why women shouldn’t watch men play.”
And so you see? This how it goes for men. No matter the competition, winning in front of his woman means everything in the world to him. Why? Because women love winners, even more than they love their man. As a lady friend of mine told me, “If my man lost a game or a competition, I’d still give him some. But if he won, I’d go down on him too.” I whatsapped her the next day, joking about how much truth there was in her statement.
Men know this, and that is why they act a damn fool whenever they win in front of their woman. I remember one time I was playing some flag football with friends of mine. In this game, I caught two touchdown passes. The first one I caught, I handled it like a gentleman. There was no hot-dogging. There was no grandstanding. I just tossed the ball to my opponent and got back on defense. But sometime between the first one and the second one, my girlfriend at the time came to watch. I whatsapped a friend who wasn’t there and told him, “You missed a masterpiece of athleticism and ego.”
All of a sudden, I’m drawing up plays to get me the ball. We break into formation. I go long, stupid long, like there’s-no-reason-to-go-that-long-in-a-game-of-flag-football long. But our QB throws it to me anyway. I jump up. Catch it. TOUCHDOWN! SCORE! GOAL! SIX POINTS! WHAT NOW, BABY!? WHAT!? OH YOU WANT THE BALL? YOU WANT IT? YOU CAN’T HAVE THE BALL! I even whatsapped my coach a picture afterward, to make sure he knew who the MVP was.
After the game, as we were walking home, I asked my girl what she thought of the play. “It was cool,” she said. “Cool?” I asked. “Cool? Girl, we won the game. We won the game because of my touchdown! That’s more than cool. That’s like…”
“Baby,” she said. “You won. That’s what you were supposed to do.”
Well, this Thursday, when I sit down to gorge myself with the world’s finest dish, I don’t know if I’m supposed to win. Shoot, there’s a good chance I’m supposed to lose. Who knows? All I know is if I ever want my lady friends to make me some tacos in the future, to take my love for the food seriously, it’s best I win or lose this competition without them watching. I whatsapped my mom to promise her I wouldn’t throw up on anyone.
Wish me luck. I whatsapped my brother to remind him he’s invited to witness greatness, and I whatsapped my cousin to apologize in advance if my love for tacos becomes too aggressive.