I was 16 years old before I could beat my grandmother in an arm wrestling match.
We were at her kitchen counter, seated on opposite stools. It wasn’t a quick match, and afterwards I was confused. I expected to have to go gentle on her knuckles when I pinned her arm down. Instead, after two minutes of struggle, I just got them to touch the counter and claimed victory.
It was a hollow victory. It was my grandmother, after all.