Saturday, August 9, 2008

Would I Look Lame with an Olympic Tattoo?

I have not been gifted with great athletic potential or skill. I don't fly the flag or wear an I HEART USA lapel pin. I practice patriotism through tough love. I rarely watch any sports on TV (tennis being the exception) and I am a totally non-competitive kind of gal during odd numbered years.

But now, it is August 2008 and I have cried in my living room three times already watching the Olympic proceedings. Come next swim season I won't be able to pick Michael Phelps out of a line-up, but right now I would believe it if he announced that he has a cure for war and AIDS and athlete's foot and it is contained in a single drop of his chlorine-scented sweat. I have Olympic coverage streaming in my house 24/7. I cheered when the Iraqi delegation walked into the opening ceremonies. I yearn for a little white newsboy cap to wear as I watch the events. I wish that there was such a thing as Olympic Dog Walking, or Olympic Spelling Words for Bad-Speller Spouse, so that I could participate in the only world wide event that does not involve killing people. I want to hold hands with the athletes of the world and sing Kumbaya and have my heroic efforts featured in a montage commercial for McDonalds. I want Bob Costas to narrate a mini-biography about the hard road I walked to reach my Olympic dream. Kelly overcame the greatest of odds, a complete lack of natural athletic talent...

For two weeks, I will enjoy the thrill of competition. I will root for our team. I will watch people run and jump over stuff and I will weep, without a hint of irony. At the end of these 14 Olympic days I will return to my normal apathetic self, until 2010. The Winter Olympics REALLY get me excited...

*As a side note, to further illustrate my all-consuming and unexplainable Olympic fetish, my daughter's middle name is Picabo. Like Picabo Street, the Olympic downhill skier. Oh yeah, believe it!

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