Dis-Illusioned

It must be weird to be an Olympic champion or Number One on the FBI’s “Most Wanted” List, because for most of us, the experience of being the best in the world at something will always be elusive.

In my own life, I can always find someone who’s better at something I do with relative competence (except maybe when it comes to being prolific in crafting 327-word essays, but even that’s on hiatus), whether it’s doing philosophy, riding a bike, organizing a teachers’ union, mixing margueritas, you name it.

Never is this brought home more clearly to me than at the Ashtanga shala here in Mysore, where any illusions that I’m pretty good at yoga have been shattered; in fact, the scales have so fallen from my eyes, that I could easily build a reptile at my feet.

This is a good thing, of course; philosophers are supposed to love the truth more than anything else, so I should be glad that I’m seeing things as they really are rather than as they might appear as shadows on the wall of the proverbial cave, or, I guess, to stick with the proper cultural context, it’s good that avidya is being replaced by vidya, or something closer to it anyway.

But it is interesting to note how my little mind (or is that big ego?) works, because I’ll bet I’m not alone in this.

I’ll notice—obviously—that I’m not nearly as competent as your average bear at a given activity—let’s say doing yoga, for instance.

So, then, I’ll think, (and this is more typical in classes at home, where the gender balance is way skewed towards the distaff side), “Well, at least I’m the best guy in the room.”

But here in Mysore, where it’s not so much of what my daughter once called a “taco fest,” I can’t sustain that belief, so then, maybe, I think, “Well, at least I’m the best old guy,” but that doesn’t work here, either, since there are plenty of men even more elderly than me who are incredibly advanced; so then, maybe I think, “Well, maybe I’m the best old American guy,” but that fails, too, since there’s plenty of those, too, so I might think, “Best old American male who's only been here two weeks or less,” but that doesn’t work either, and so on, and so on, until, in the end, the only the I’m best at is being me.

Which I suppose is exactly what I should strive for: let's call it something like "Olympic champion of the 100-Year Being Me" event.