Getting the Bronze

I was a competitive diver in high school. It seems ridiculous now, but it's true and I was really into it. I was also kind of good and I say that with no false modesty.  I was only kind of good.  I would get very high scores for difficulty because I was willing to try crazy dives, and horrible scores for form because I am hideously ungraceful. (In fact, in every single yearbook collage there is a cutout of me flying through the air, spread-eagle, in a bathing suit...thanks Jason Lieberman.)

In my senior year, I placed 3rd at the LA city finals.  That sounds more impressive than it is.  I don't actually know how many female divers there were in LA at the time, but it wasn't thousands or even hundreds.  I'm thinking 60, maybe. And the two girls who placed 1st and 2nd were awesome—legions better than the rest of us and I never once beat either of them in any meet in 3 years. But, in my last city finals, I got a bronze medal.

Cut to 20 years or so later. Sophie is going through my jewelry drawer and sees the medal (which my mother found in an old box along with all of my report cards from elementary school and an IQ test I once took). She is very impressed, so I give her the medal which she squirrels away.

It's been months since I gave her the medal. Then, two nights ago, I'm putting her to bed and she gets very quiet and solemn. Finally, she says...

Sophie: Mom, Lucy told me that your medal is a bronze medal.

Me: That's true.

Sophie: Well, I thought it was a gold medal.

Me: Nope. It's a bronze medal.

Sophie: Well, that's third place.

Me: Right.  I came in third.

[Very pregnant pause]

Sophie: That's not so good.

And that, my friends, is how I know she is at least half Friedman.