Well, another Olympics have come and gone and I, like most of you, can’t help thinking about the young people who came from all over the globe, proudly wearing their country’s colors in order to vie for the opportunity to interrupt each and every one of my favorite programs.
I left Parenthood in the middle of a potential divorce, Bones over some revolting guts, calmly presided over by the enigmatic Dr. Brennan and Scandal in the middle of a, well, you can probably guess, so that athletes can replicate what I can only imagine originally took place in the backyards of male teenagers between, “Hey! Watch this!” and traction.
I picture these anonymous (and probably currently arthritic) young men attempting to defy gravity, (which was put there for a reason), by flipping their feet with their heads (which were put on in the original way for a reason), while hurdling toward the frozen pool with garbage can lids strapped to their feet, while practicing gymnastics. Which begs a question; how many catastrophic injuries have been preceded by the phrase: Hey! Watch this!
Although, I don’t enjoy the games, I can see why orthopedic surgeons might, in fact there is probably a unmentionable reaction in the crisply pleated trousers of the these specialists when a human being straps on long slippery footwear, points his or herself down a mountain treated with extra coatings of Crisco and hurls themselves toward the bottom.
Many of my friends watch these activities and urge me to likewise tune in, and sometimes I do because NCIS and Psych aren’t on, but I find myself unsuccessfully trying to talk people out of piling into a (Crisco-coated?) sphere in costumes which may or may not consist of latex paint and —this just in, outside of the theatre, costumes are referred to as uniforms. Who knew?
Figure skating is often pointed to as the one activity that I might enjoy, and sometimes I do, especially when I gasp for oxygen after holding my breath for the entirety of the routine, imagining the death and destruction which seems all but certain to take place when people take to the ice with sharp blades on their feet and proceed to toss each other around like a Sicilian pizza chef preparing a crust.
As I watch these exercises of impending doom, I wonder things like; who would I trust enough to allow him to throw me up into the air with the promise to catch me.
The answer is no one. When I venture from my home in the winter, my beloved husband and darling son fear for my life and often take me by the scruff of my coat with the intention of keeping me upright on icy sidewalks. I trust both of these people with my life, but I know, if I fall, they’re going with me, most likely on top of me, which would make matters worse, especially when we went to the creepy orthopedic surgeon.
Now picture my husband telling me, “Wife, hold onto my arm and just before we get to the ice coated gate, leap into my arms and I will toss you into the air where I hope you’ll prettily point your toes before gravity works its magic and I will catch you with one hand and flip you over my shoulder before settling you back down. Then we’ll go get milk.”
He might add, “Don’t worry, I’ve practiced this with a shovel and garbage cans strapped to my feet when I was a teenaged boy, so no harm will come to you.”
I might respond in a way which resembles the time I was trying to change lightbulbs in my ceiling fan and the complexity overcame me. I ended spouting a stream of vulgar words before realizing my small son was in the next room. I called out an apology to which he replied, “That’s ok. I didn’t even know those words could go together.” This is how I Iost “Mother of the Year” in 1993, the one and only year I was in the competition.
I always wonder about the parents of these athletes and how they watch these activities with no sign of being physically held back by security. Have they no instinct to tackle their child and return them to the safety of the nest or basement or wherever they’d have to lock up their kid in order to keep them from interrupting my programs?
My grown son fell outside of his apartment last weekend (which I like to refer to as his temporary living space before returning home for good), and when he called to describe his injuries my first reaction was to call out the National Guard to protect this disastrous event from recurring when my son leaves his “apartment” to come home for good. The National Guard, however stopped taking my calls when my son was injured during a rehearsal of the musical, Hair. Seems it’s not in their job description to prevent American citizens from being injured during dance numbers. I have received similar messages from The FBI and The CIA
Luckily his injury was not considered local news and my programs were not interrupted and now that The Olympics are in the rear view mirror, I can get back to what’s important; evaluating Adam Levine’s attractiveness on The Voice. I give him an 8 and he doesn’t even have to strap garbage cans to his feet.