The Best Day of My Life

I’m embarrassed by some of the best days of my life. But, why?


by Tierney Flavin, Features Editor

The twangy chorus of “Best Day of My Life” by the American Authors plays through the radio of my mom’s car as the Sporting KC practice facility fades away from my view. It was too perfect of a coincidence; I decided then and there that this would be the best day of my life. 

I was eight years old and a major soccer fan. I had just gotten to interview Aurelien Collin in front of huge lights and cameras after watching the team practice. It was the coolest thing I had ever done and I couldn’t possibly imagine doing something better.

But, inevitably as life goes on, there were other days that I would proclaim as “the best days of my life.”

Two years before that, my parents had taken me to a Big Time Rush meet-and-greet before their concert. I got to meet Kendall Schmidt, who at that point I figured would be my future husband. Of course, that day was the best day of my life.

Somewhere between those two days, my mom and I flew to Belgium to meet my pen pal of a few years by then. When I got off of the fast train that came from the Brussels airport and I saw Philoe for the first time, I figured that would be the best day of my life. 

As I progressed through elementary and middle school there were innumerable days which I claimed would be the best days of my life. 

Namely, in sixth grade, I read and watched the entire “Harry Potter” saga within a two-month period. Matthew Lewis who played my favorite character — Neville Longbottom — ended up being at Comic-Con that year in Kansas City. Of course I had to be there and by whatever means possible get a picture with him. After waiting in line with my dad and my uncle I finally met him. It had to be the best day of my life!

As I look back now, I know that the day that I stood in a dreadfully long, sweltering line and forced my parents to pay far too much money to take a photo with Neville Longbottom was not the best day of my life. Neither was the day that my mom and I got lost in a foreign country and were three hours late to meet Philoe’s family at the train station. 

Reflecting on them, I see now that all of these “best days” are very different, and the sheer amount of them probably qualifies the use of the word “best” as a logical fallacy. 

But who am I to discount a younger me’s “best day” when each of these days has been, at that point in time, special to me?

When my mom and I went to Belgium for the first time, I had no idea that there would be second and third times that I got to stay with Philoe. When I met Big Time Rush and saw them in concert, I never knew how many more concerts (and celebrity crushes) would be to come. So as all of these “bests” have been seemingly repeated, I forget about how perfect  they felt as they were happening. 

I still feel embarrassed to recount my past “best days,” though. 

Now, I am humiliated by the outfit that I wore — and even my presence alone — at Comic-Con. I laugh along when my friends pull up the video of me as the Youth Reporter. Even though I still love boybands, and even saw Big Time Rush in concert last summer, I can’t help but shudder when I think of the card that I gave to Kendall at the meet-and-greet. 

I think that sometimes I forget the excitement that came with child-like wonder and the newness that every day brought with my “best days.” I need to work on remembering that feeling, and not just how interesting I look in that photo of me at Comic-Con.