Reloading

I shot a lot of rounds this weekend.

It was a thing of beauty.

Celebrating my mom’s 70^th birthday at a private party put on by Valley Defense Consulting (excellent!), I’m not exactly sure who had a more satisfying day.

Three teenaged grandsons whose surly expressions gave way to everlasting grins, or Grandma Gangsta (a loving nickname we assigned to our proper, gun-toting mother)? 

Or was it me—the risk-adverse hater of all weapons not belonging to law enforcement?

For every minute of our five-hour training, I was a nervous wreck. I mean seriously, who in their right mind would give a woman—jumpier than a hare with a crack habit—a gun? Especially in my recent state of mind.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the United States Dance Championships where I’d hoped to take 1^st this year after placing 2^nd in 2012. However, instead of returning with the title, I came home to mope, sleep, eat and spend my way through several retail establishments and spa treatments.  

Why?

Because for the first time ever, at any competition, I didn’t even make the finals.

I’d done everything possible to secure good placement: strong physical fitness, greater mental toughness, finely tuned routines, plenty of high-level coaching, and quality styling. I also believe I’d danced my best ever, rewarded in early rounds by finishing 1^st in all individual dances.

So how does a competitor fall from such a position of strength?

I have no idea.

Even so, Grandma Gangsta wants to know.

Her initial thought was perhaps I’d upset someone with my new blog. Knowing my writing style, I can’t say her worry was unfounded, but in this case it’s too early. I’ve not offended anyone yet.

So along with comfort food and shopping, I’ve obsessed about what went wrong. At least until yesterday when I discovered what it’s like to empty a magazine.

I shot my wad and still failed to hit my mark.

All the guesswork in the world about what 9 judges thought of my choreography, expressions, partner connections, foot placement, dress movement, or even my black hair crystals won’t change the fact that 6 other dancers managed to have more judges recall them than I did.

As I write, last week’s U.S. Open men’s final is replaying. Given all of Rafa Nadal’s setbacks, fans like me wondered whether we’d ever see this comeback. It’s thrilling to relive such moments. What we don’t see, however, is the private reaction after high-stakes losses.

Do the pro’s really get right back on the proverbial horse? Or is it possible that they, too, need a little time to be down?

My dance shoes haven’t touched my home practice space for weeks. Instead, my son is enjoying the sole use of what is usually his only on weekends—the convertible gaming room.

Today he asked to hang our Glock targets there—specifically on the wall covering my handwritten tips about each of my 5 dances. This makes me smile because of all the possible rationales, the one that makes the most sense is this: The words might be important details, but I spent too much time on my target when, at the range, the sights yield the hit.

Or in my case, the dancing.

I didn’t really master reloading my gun yesterday, and I’m also unclear how to fully restore myself after this unexpected defeat.

But one way or another, I’m beginning to figure it out.