Truth be told, I am crazy obsessed with the Olympics. I mean, really, I think I watched like, sixteen hours of coverage on Sunday. Cycling? I’m in. Water polo? On it. Sorry, can’t answer my phone. I’m watching handball.
Look, even the baby was enthralled with the Parade of Nations:
Once upon a time, the Winter Olympics were in Torino, Italy. The Hubs was fascinated, nay, enthralled, by curling. He discovered our local ice arena had free curling lessons.
“We could be The Curling Curleys!” he said.
“No.” my brain said.
“Sounds fun.” my mouth said.
And thus our Olympic training began.
It ended one free practice session later because, namely, curling is hard. Curling requires two skills:
I possess neither of these skills. I was terrified to even stand on the ice, let alone maniacally run with a broom or fling myself across the ice while clutching the stone. No. I’m good at spectator sports. Spectating.
So battered and bruised, that was that.
But yeah, London 2012. Good times. The Opening Ceremonies? Maybe improved by more Bollywood dancing and heroin addicts (Bollywood dancing heroin addicts? Sounds like a legit Danny Boyle movie) and less giant babies and flying Voldemorts. I was momentarily concerned with David Beckham’s speed boat driving. Well, concerned he’d either catch on fire or fall overboard.
My girl Jacko, of the notorious J Ladies, was of the opinion a wet Beckham would be appreciated.
A Wet Beckham. Sounds like a euphemism.
Anyway, some brief thoughts on the Games, while I half watch women’s gymnastics:
1. Is Michael Phelps actually aware he’s at the Olympics?
2. Ryan Lochte? Why yes. That does maintain a Wet Beckham.
3. When did the gymnasts start looking so young? Am I old enough to be their mother? (Answer: no)
4. Diving is potentially the most terrifying event there is. Spinning and plummeting face first into the water? False.
5. I could watch Ryan Lochte work out every day of my life. Now there’s an event I’d medal in. Wet Beckham and all.
Obviously, no writing is getting done during these 17 days of Olympic-y goodness. I’ve been brainstorming at inopportune times (like at work, when I should be, you know, working) and fumbling through a wee bit of research. But I’m in Olympic mode.
And while I’m looking at his face while he reports on Phelps, can I seriously see something on TV that is not hosted/produced/owned/narrated/written/directed by Ryan Seacrest? Come on, buddy. I’ll endorse your inevitable Rockin’ New Years Eve. But leave something sacred for us.
Okay, enough fooling around. Lochte has to have an event coming on soon, right? Right?