I’m not the sort of person to wake up at the crack of dawn to go on a five mile run. Or to wake up at the crack of dawn to go on a run of any sort. Or to wake up at the crack of dawn at all.
I’m the sort of person to watch Olympic divers jump off a plank ten meters in the air, do three somersaults, two pirouettes, several twisty things—and then jeer loudly when they splash a little water while stuffing my face with marshmallows. I’ve got it down to a tee. Watching the Olympics is a Perfected Art by Me, and it’s one of the main athletic things that I’m good at.
So it’s great during the Olympics, because it’s one of those few times where I actually feel like I have a Thing in my life that I can really excel at. At watch parties, I jeer the loudest. I follow the NBC Facebook page like a hawk. I don’t need highlight reels the way other people do, because I’ve already watched the full thing over a family-sized bag of Doritos. And boy is it an amazing feeling. I wonder if that’s how geniuses like Einstein or mega-talented actors like Leo DiCaprio feel every day. Just knowing that you’re doing something that no one else in the known universe can do better than you.
But like all good things, the Olympics ends. And after only seventeen days.
It’s like the crash after a sugar high.
My talents curl up for a four-year hibernation until the next Olympics come round. I don’t feel the need to be super patriotic anymore, so the national anthem which blared on my Spotify playlist for those two weeks sinks back into the depths. My life devolves back into what it was only a few weeks before—cold and purposeless.
I try to suck all the marrow out of it, during the weeks right after the Olympics. Turn up the bass on that national anthem. Wrap myself in an American flag and watch highlights and, if I’m feeling particularly lucky/drunk at the time, try to do one of those gymnastics flips off the end of the kitchen table.
But it’s inevitable. The high will end. The bruises retained from attempting a front flip will heal. And the world will move on. The only solace is that this year, Trump may become president, and the world will end before I have to wait for the next Olympics.
Only one thing is clear. Providing that doesn’t happen, when the Olympics swing back around in 2020, the cycle will begin anew. And I’ll be right there to collect my laurels and my gold medal for Best Olympics Watcher Ever.
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