lobsterchick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dunh DUNH Da Dunh Dunh DANH Dunh! Dude. It's the Olympics. The Summer Olympics. Really, it's a toss-up for me, Winter or Summer. That springs from the same indecisive nature that makes me answer the question "What's your favorite season?" with "What month is it?" I like whichever Olympics I'm watching. My love of the Winter Games led me to embark on six ill-conceived months of private figure skating lessons. I still can't stop on the ice. The Summer Olympics are a more embarrassing animal. They send me not to the local rink with a few skaters and coaches who are not interested in me, they lead me to my front yard. Where the lawn is the mat for my floor excercises, and the railroad ties surrounding our flowers are my balance beam. And lo, there was much acrobatic activity. For as far back as I can remember, during and after the Summer Olympics, my sister and I would jump, twirl, run, cartwheel, handstand, walk on our hands, and attempt handsprings. 'Cause see, that's where we veered off The Road to Olympic Glory. Our complete inability to take our hands off the ground before our feet came down. Every imaginary beam routine ended in, "I almost did it! I was so close!" coming from the upside-down face of someone who has become trapped in her own backbend. But still, I think about it. I think about doing a couple of stretches then getting out there. Running, then vaulting myself into a cartwheel of Olympian proportions. And then, when I'm lying on the ground, the wind knocked out of me, every joint already bitching and moaning, I vow, "Not again. At least not for another four years." 7:46 PM - 18 August 2004 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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