I love the Olympics. I love the Olympics more than people from Arkansas love their cousins…which, from the rumors I’ve heard, is quite a bit more than normal.
Maybe it’s because the Games make watching TV seem like an expression of patriotism and an investment in history-in-the-making. (I really don’t watch all that much aside from The Bachelor, which is really done out of obligation to my expectant public following…)
Maybe it’s because it reminds me of my childhood dreams of figure skating…and, subsequently, imitating Michelle Kwan’s routines in front of the TV until I was 16.
Maybe it’s because I hope for a sighting of Apollo Ohno’s notorious soul-patch/”flavor-savor,” much like Pennsylvanians anticipate the sighting of Punxsutawney Phil each year on Groundhog Day.
Maybe it’s because mama loves her some athletic men in spandex, foreign or otherwise. (Can I get an amen, ladies?)
Whatever the reason, I’ve been crazy-jazzed about Sochi. If you follow me on twitter, you already know this because you’ve seen my obsessive live-tweeting of the Opening Ceremony and scattered commentary on various events. You always hear medalists talking about how the Olympics were such a defining moment in their careers, the pinnacle they had been training for years to reach. Frankly, as a spectator, I’m already feeling that the Olympics are a defining moment in my life. Sure, I’m not going to be found on any podium (unless someone wants to hand out medals for excessive marshmallow consumption…mama can put those bad boys away)…but I’ve learned quite a bit from all the time I’ve spent watching strangers do athletic things while I lay on my living room floor like a sloth who’s been roofied.
Since the Olympics are all about sharing and love and world peace (or maybe those are just the Coca Cola commercials? I get confused.), I figured I should be magnanimous and enlighten those who may have missed these nuggets of wisdom. But unlike Putin, I won’t throw you in jail if you choose to ignore me.
The first and most important lesson is this:
I have accomplished nothing with my life and may as well go suffocate myself in a kiddie-pool filled with Hostess snack cakes.
Watching all these athletes who are 3, 4, or even 8 years younger than me (looking at you,
Little Miss Russia Julia Lipnitskaia) accomplishing more in one day than I’ve accomplished in almost 24 years is humbling, to say the least. These kids will be making more off of endorsements in the next year than I will make in the next 10 years (and that’s if my 10-year plan holds up). Ok, maybe the Russian ones won’t make that much, since they probably have to go work in Siberian wheat fields or something, but they’ll still be able to say they won a gold medal. I’m fairly certain the only medal I was ever awarded was for participating in youth soccer…and even then I really didn’t do anything besides tackle people. Sports were tough for me to keep straight.
On that note, the Sochi Olympics have also taught me that I am utterly and completely handicapped. We’ve already established that I am not gifted as an athlete. One might think that I am, upon seeing the breadth of my shoulders or the girth of my quads. Seriously, I could probably share shirts with Tim Tebow, and my younger sister calls me “Helga,” in reference to the fact that I have the proportions of a stereotypical Russian bodybuilder. But my size is deceiving – much like a panda bear, I am large without being at all in charge of my movements. Watching these foreigners perform feats of extreme athleticism is incredible, awe-inspiring, and sometimes terrifying. (Currently I am living in fear that I will witness a live luge run in which the sled flies off the tracks.) Take snowboarding: Those suckers are fast. And not just fast, but they do flips and jumps and all these crazy stunts, and sometimes they fall and then get back up and keep going.
For comparison, I went snowboarding for the first (and only) time a year ago. It took me over an hour to get down the easiest run on the mountain besides the bunny slope, and I fell no less than 20 times. Don’t be mistaken – when I say I “fell,” it was no clumsy-but-adorable collapse into the snow…no, it was more like violently hurling myself face-first into the ground. I quickly discovered that packed snow feels eerily similar to concrete.
Needless to say, I had whiplash for a week and my buttcheeks were black and blue for over a month, like something out of 50 Shades of Snowboarding. So, yeah, as if my lovely butt-bruises weren’t enough proof, Sochi has certainly confirmed that I am absolutely devoid of any athletic inclination.
Sparkles are the key to winning Gold.
I learned this lesson one night while watching the men’s figure skating finals with my parents at 10pm. (We are party animals, you see.) I was fascinated by the exquisite woodland sprite from Japan who pranced around with the grace of a delicate hummingbird.
He was bedazzled to such a degree that I’m fairly certain that Cher herself was never adorned with so much irridescence. Also, his entire circumference could have fit into a single leg of my jeans. So not only was I put to shame by his talent and overall delicacy, but also the fact that he would likely need hospitalization if I so much as sat on his lap. But he took the gold, so apparently there was some hidden power in his sparkly ensemble.
Once again, I’m headed for the Hostess-filled hot-tub of shame.
The Dutch are bootylicious.
So yeah, surprise yall – Beyonce is not queen. Actually, I had already established that – I think she’s about as egotistic as Kanye (yeah, I went there), just prettier – but now the rest of the world knows. I came to this realization when watching the finals for men’s speed skating. The Dutch swept the podium, and the medalists included twins brothers Ronald and Michel Mulder.
Now, the sweeping of the podium was impressive. Their speed on the ice was impressive. Their orange spandex suits were even impressive, in a “Where has the Netherlands been hiding you?” kind of way.
But their butts? Their butts were freaking phenomenal. I try to be a lady, but even I – upon witnessing their profiles as they flew around the rink – could not help but
holler whisper a reverent, “Dat ass, doe!”
My dad was watching with me and even he agreed, adding that one could balance an entire 5-course place setting on one of their derrieres. It was hard to believe they were human with such bootylicious behinds seemed to have been sculpted from marble by Michelangelo. Needless to say, I had major arse-envy. And also, I’m planning a trip back to the Netherlands.
All that to say, of course…Sorry, “queen” B. Who runs the world? you ask? The Dutch. The Dutch run the world. And the ice rink.