With the summer Olympics approaching in 2024, it's time we buckle down and start perfecting our individual athletic categories. Please tell me yours. Artistic Passive Aggression? Downhill Laundry Ignoring? White Claw Crushing? I will be competing in Short Arms Drive-Thru Window. After years of preparation, these are the events in which I hope to qualify:

THE CARD FLING

Setting: CVS Pharmacy

Scene: I drive up to retrieve my monthly supply of blood pressure medication. "That will be $11.86 for the Labetalol," the pharmacy tech says into the fuzzy microphone, naming a price that changes slightly each time because insurance operates based on the mood of a cartoon villain. I propel a Visa card sideways like a throwing star into the cavernous mouth of the metal box. This move involves aim, precision and a sense of calm, which is difficult without the benefit of the beta blockers to stymie the release of the stress hormones adrenaline and noradrenaline. She deposits my medication and my card loosely in the box, which I then have to retrieve in the manner of a spelunker squeezing through a narrow passage of cave.

Score: 149/92

THE TIP ATTEMPT

Setting: Starbucks

Scene: The barista is, for some reason, hovering above in a window 15 feet off the ground. Rather than just taking my card and running it, they stick an entire credit card reader out the window. I blindly fumble to get the card in the slot as we both wobble in the liminal space between the car and the store. "IT'S GOING TO ASK YOU A QUESTION, NO PRESSURE" the barista says, and I slap whatever touch squares I can reach without the benefit of sight. Once I have accidentally tipped $4 on a $4 drink, our transaction is complete. The barista hands me a hot millennial coffee with cream, thinking I deserve to have had my growth stunted for drinking all that cow's milk.

Score: Half/Caff

THE TRICEP SLICER

Setting: A gated community

Scene: I scroll through a list of residents, pressing a clunky silver button with the arrow rubbed off. After three trips through the list, I finally see the name I am looking for spelled wrong and cut off after four letters. The window presses into my underarm like the blade of a dull paper cutter. I hit pound first. Wait, pound second. The name, then pound. No, pound, then the name. The keypad resets. My fingers tremble. My arm screams. My limb is fully extended at the elbow and I can't hold it up much longer. The intercom rings and rings, but my friend does not pick up. I scroll through the list again in a panic while a stranger approaches on foot. They are either here to kill me, finally ending my arm pain, or to let me in. They scan a key card. The gate opens. I would wave, but my arm is too weak.

Score: ####/10

THE DOOR OPENER

Setting: All of the above

Scene: I put the car in park, open the door and get out.

Score: Disqualified

Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on Twitter or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

Photo credit: Mahavir Shah at Unsplash