Hello everyone, my name is Aiden and I am a senior from Illinois. It's 1:33 AM right now in Chicago, and it's the perfect time to start a blog post, according to my sleep-deprived brain. You might be wondering why a goofy ahh Chigaoan is writing a blog post for a school based in Los Altos. Honestly, I haven't a clue.

However, one thing I've learned from my six (or seven?) years of participating in Science Olympiad is that no matter how many competitions I attend, I or someone else will always forget their goggles. Hopefully, y'all will enjoy the blog, queue the opening scene, sit back, relax, and don't forget to use scio.ly for your Science Olympiad practice.

There's something uniquely humbling about realizing that you've brought everything — binder, notes, calculator, ruler, backup ruler, your partner — but not your darn goggles.

Back in 2024 (yes, I know I'm old), on the morning of Regionals, I started off the day with SpongeBob-esque "I'm ready" confidence. The night before, I was up until 3 AM writing my notes, building my tower.

I arrived at the venue, bright-eyed, A4 paper in hand, ready to dominate and get my three medals. Tower went well with a score of 3,000, and I was feeling unstoppable as I walked my way down to the homeroom to get ready for my next event.

I strutted over to Chem Lab, fanning myself with my note sheet (cuz I was on fiyah), ready to pour, mix, and titrate my way to victory. I arrived after walking 20 minutes across the college and reached into my bag to grab my entry ticket (googles) and — nothing. All I saw was the mocking glint of my TI-84's screen staring back at me.

I figured the goggles must have been wedged somewhere between my laptop and backup balsa wood (because what builder doesn't travel with backup balsa?). But after three increasingly frantic bag shakes, it was clear to me that my goggles were AWOL. The fries were in the bag and I was cooked.

My partner looked at me, goggles perfectly in place, and said, "Didn't you say last time you'd tie them to your backpack so you wouldn't lose them?"

Yes, bro. Yes, I did. But like with most of my genius ideas, I didn't follow through.

It was too late to run back to the room to get goggles myself, so I texted my friend who was free to get me a pair. In the meantime, I was forced to sit there and look through the little window that school doors have, watching my partner pour acid into a flask for the titration like a divorced dad observing his kid's piano recital from the lobby. Twenty minutes later, my friend burst in with a pair of goggles, but it was too late for me to actually do anything significant (however, it was just in time for me to not feel completely useless).

We (and by we I mean my partner) still ended up getting 4th somehow, so I didn't walk home medal-less. But let's be honest, did I really deserve it?

After getting home, I unpacked my bag like I usually do, and you can probably guess what happened next. Lo and behold, my goggles were sitting in the front pocket. The same pocket I had checked THREE SEPARATE TIMES.

I just stared at them for a good thirty seconds. I wasn't even mad. Like, how do they do that? Do goggles exist in a higher dimension that only occasionally intersects with ours? Are they teleporting? Are we teleporting?

Existential questions aside, I ended up labeling them and tying them to my backpack with a string for reals this time. Not that it'll matter, though. They will just disappear again like they always do.

BUT WAIT! *cue the sappy conclusion*

Maybe that's the real lesson Science Olympiad teaches us: no matter how much you prepare, something will always go missing. Goggles, rulers, sanity — take your pick. After all, if SciOly isn't chaos held together by duct tape, superglue, and caffeine, then what is it?

After all these years, I'd love to say I've learned my lesson… but as I'm writing this, I just looked over at my desk and realized I can't find my goggles again.

It's now 2:23 AM. My goggles are missing, my credit card is missing, my motivation is gone, and I still don't have a girlfriend (but that's a story for another day). Maybe they all ran off together, or maybe they just hate me. Regardless, if you find them, tell them I said hi.