Small victories in a solo competition: what are we constantly competing for?

I enjoy competing with myself in my daily life, sometimes pointlessly, but it keeps me energized and active. A small competition between a Korean man and an Arab man in the sauna gave me a lot of pride, but it’s just part of the never-ending competition.

 

I feel like I have a lot of useless competition. For me, competition is like an energizer bunny that gives me a sense of freedom and makes me active and passive. Competition can be a good thing that pushes you forward, but sometimes it can also be a pointless activity that doesn’t pay off. For example, getting off the subway the fastest and running full speed up the subway stairs to beat the person standing on the escalator. Another example is crossing the street by stepping on only the white part of the crosswalk, or walking faster than the person in front of you on the street. I often engage in these solitary competitions with myself. But there was an incident that made me rethink the meaning of competition.
Many summers ago, I went to the Olympic Sports Center for free swimming. As I swam, I was conscious of the people in the lane next to me, trying to swim faster and better than them. They didn’t consider me a competitor, but it didn’t matter. To me, they were always the competition.
After the free swim, which I enjoyed as usual, my shoulders were stiff. I had some time to kill, so I went into the sauna room in the shower to relieve my stiff shoulders. There were two other people in there, a Korean man and an Arab man. I don’t usually feel particularly competitive in the sauna, but the moment I saw the Arab guy, my competitive side kicked in. Suddenly, I remembered Iranian bed soccer. I had always resented their attitude of lying down and taking time off during the game, so his appearance ignited a fire in me. At that moment, I became the 12th player to represent South Korea. My patriotism kicked in and I jumped right into the game.
Just as formation and positioning are important in soccer, they are also very important in the sauna. I took a seat at the very back of the bench in the sauna room because I could see everyone else, but the other two couldn’t see me. It was the best positioning. I took a deep breath, flipped the five-minute hourglass in the sauna room, and started the match. As soon as I flipped the hourglass, the room immediately quieted down, as if they were ready to compete.
The first five minutes passed. I didn’t expect anyone to get out in the first five minutes. But five minutes in a sauna room is never a short time. With each breath, the hot steam irritated the mucous membranes of my nose, and with more damage than I expected, I checked on the other two. The Korean man lowered his head, looking a bit exhausted, but the Arab man was still going strong. He was nonchalant, perhaps because he was from a hot country after all. I quickly stood up and flipped the hourglass back over as the clock ran out. I knew that I had to manage the time so that I could take advantage of the match. It was the same logic that makes me feel annoyed when someone else runs a vacuum cleaner, but not so noisy when I do it myself.
After 10 minutes, the Korean man left the sauna room with a mixture of pride at having lasted so long and bitterness at being the first to leave. I was now the only Korean left. I opened my eyes and flipped the hourglass again, thinking that if I were to leave first, the Arab man might say, “Koreans can’t stand saunas,” and I returned to my seat, closed my eyes, and stretched my back.
Now I counted down the minutes, mentally strategizing. Then I started pretending to sleep. I figured that since I had been closing my eyes for 10 minutes, if I looked like I was dozing off, my opponent would be tongue-in-cheek about my endurance. I figured he’d soon lose interest as he felt inadequate trying to fight a sleeping opponent.
Not long after I began my performance, the Arab man began to stir, for I could hear his chair rattling. As the five minutes came to a close, I opened my booth eyes and looked at the hourglass, but this time I didn’t turn it over. I wanted to give him the perception of a timeless master, and all he would have left would be the desire to get out quickly.
Eventually, he shuffled out of the sauna room like an Iranian soccer player. I was now certain of victory, but to leave immediately would reveal that I was conscious of him, so I sat in silence for a while longer. Then I noticed his glasses lying on his seat. I grabbed his glasses, walked out and approached him in the shower, smiled, and handed them to him. It was a heartwarming moment, like exchanging jerseys after a soccer game, and I returned to the sauna room.
I stayed for a while longer, then left the sauna and happily showered. As I headed for the doorway, feeling triumphant and superior, I absentmindedly glanced in the direction of the sauna room and got goosebumps when I saw the Arab man re-entering the sauna room. He gave me a wan smile and a look that said, “There’s still time for the second half.” In that moment, I was reminded of the tenacity of Iranian bed soccer, where once you win a soccer match, you don’t get up easily.