Long live the Olympics

This may seem un-American, but at first I wasn't into the hoopla surrounding the Olympics. I knew they were coming because my husband waited with baited breath for the opening ceremonies, which I caught glimpses of on my way to the kitchen numerous times for what I call boredom snacks. He sat on the edge of his seat with the high-def, huge TV blasting in the living room while I played tag with the remote and the teeny TV in the bedroom.
I didn't share his enthusiasm and couldn't figure out why millions of Americans and the rest of the world were waiting for the running of the torch, but I soon realized that I had truly missed a spectacular event only when it was over and saw clips of the replay.
So, there I was — stubborn, stupid and in the minority. Let's face it, the competition running against the Olympics isn't going to win an Emmy by a long shot. My choices ranged from re-runs of "That 70s Show" (which time period I painfully lived through and had no desire to revisit) to a competition between six scantily clad young women vying for a shot at the title of Pussycat Doll.
I might have stayed with the Pussycats if I knew that somehow my choice would win, but I never seem to pick the right one, and I'm just plain fed up with my choice getting the boot. Eliminating the 6-inch stilettos and fish net stockings left me with an hour of nostalgia that I'd sooner like to forget, but I needed the tube to put me to sleep. It did its job well.
When the Olympics came on a few nights later, I decided to give it a shot and settled down to watching the women's beach volleyball semi-finals pitting China versus the U.S. As if the Pussycat Doll wannabes weren't enough to encourage me to trade a handful of cookies for a handful of grapes, these four young nubile, ambidextrous women were smacking a ball around clad in teeny swimsuits and dripping with the same amount of perspiration that I tend to exude after three minutes of weed whacking in August.
But these amazing, supreme athletes were truly a sight to behold. These four women were volleying in, of all places, a court of hot sand in what appeared to be their bare feet. Each curve ball serve made me think of Superman's "faster than a speeding bullet" introduction.
And as I watched, I had to smile to myself because I began to remember how volleyball was the sport that made me cut the most gym classes in high school.
High school years tend to bring back memories I'd like to keep buried since the good times are cloudy while the bad times are crystal clear in my memory bank. Those times that I ran out of excuses and was forced to play court volleyball took place on a nice shiny gym floor, and I can still hear the skid of Keds sneakers as I write this.
In playing volleyball, I was well known among my peers to always use my head. No, I don't mean that I carefully played my moves and maneuvered like a gazelle around the court. What I mean is that the ball seemed to always travel in my direction and no matter how hard I tried to dodge it, my head usually had no trouble making contact. Sure, sometimes I'd get lucky and my well placed noggin was able to send the ball over the net. But usually, once the ball went sailing out of bounds, the bigger pain would be facing the rest of the team, shrugging and taking my place in the back of the court awaiting the next attack.
After USA lost to China that first night of my new-found Olympic viewing, the next night was terrific when the other USA team beat Brazil. Way to go gals. And any woman who thinks wearing a white, wet, swimsuit in front of zillions of people is an easy task — well, those gals get my vote for courage as well.
After the Brazil win, the gals on the trampoline were next, yet another dark period in the four years that I like to call my prison term in the gymnasium. The Olympic gals were bouncing higher than a shooting rocket in preparation for their spins and tumbles and landing on the "X" right in the center of the trampoline. My trampoline experience consisted of getting one or two bounces in if I was lucky before I'd go flying off the whole trampoline and landing head first on a well-placed mat. Let's just say that I learned to appreciate the smell of rubber because it was proof that I was still alive.
The women diving experts also were a sight to behold, and I think China won that round, too. Diving is such a beautiful sport and these women made it look so easy and so very glamorous (we've come a long way Esther Williams).
And once again my memory bank brought back the time I was insanely trying to scuba dive. One of my friends had nagged me so much about how beautiful the bottom of the sea was that I finally agreed to take scuba lessons. Forgetting that I had just learned how to swim, I was with the class in full scuba gear on the side of the pool one afternoon when the instructor said, "OK. Now each of you will turn around, sit on the side of the pool, and tumble in backwards."
I raised my hand and asked meekly, "Did you say tumble in backwards?"
He nodded.
I took a long gulp, looked around at the other divers dressed in fins, snorkels and wetsuits, and realized at that moment that I had bitten off much more than I could ever hope to chew. I slowly removed the fins and the snorkel, placed them on a nearby bench and started walking away.
"Where do you think you're going?" the instructor demanded.
"Back to reality," I responded and never looked back.