Olympic Dream

Well, folks, the Olympics are upon us once again.  I'll admit, I LOVE them.  I love the olympics.  I am one of those fair-weather fans who couldn't be bothered with really any sport in my normal life, but as soon as those Olympic rings start appearing everywhere, I suddenly get all choked up about the comeback kid who sliced his leg open speed skating, I start quoting trivia about the biathlon (skiing and shooting!  Who knew?), and I am willing to spend hours watching anything from luge to curling.

Curling!

And, even though I complain that the human interest stories are trite and tired, I secretly can't get enough of them. I love hearing about the athletes, the people who barely scrape by working odd jobs in the off-season so they can have a few seconds of glory hurtling down a snow-covered hill, the people who've broken bones and strapped the skates right back on, the people who devote all their fanatical time and energy to perfect their own little slice of athleticism.  I find it compelling and completely overwhelming, and I cry pretty much constantly.

I totally lack any athleticism.  I am clumsy, a little pudgy around the middle, and my hand-eye coordination  is... substandard.  I'm also afraid of heights and don't really like to go fast.  So... for a while in high school I was a competitive swimmer, which worked well because that's the only sport where it's impossible to fall down.  But that's it for me and sports.   So I look on Olympians like they are almost another species... fit, flexible, strong, fast... so many standard deviations from the mean, and from lil ole me, that they seem like eagles in the chicken coop.

I love to watch them fly.