Take the female weightlifters, for example. Now I know a lot of women lift weights. I do so myself -- that blasted laundry
hamper must weigh a ton, especially when I have to lug it downstairs. But a woman who can hoist a barbell heavier than my husband over the top of her head while dressed in a scrap of Spandex and not even
breathe heavy is kind of scary. Even my nine-year-old son couldn't help but notice these examples of the "weaker" sex were a bit different. "Boy that lady sure is strong," he said, as a
butch-looking female with more chest hair than Charles Bronson and upper thighs the size of telephone poles hefted almost 300 pounds of dead weight over her head like it was a bag of marshmallows. She had a
name with no vowels and was from a formerly Communist country that must have an awful lot of full clothes hampers.
I, for one, will miss having those stunning sports moments available each and
every night while I iron the clothes that formerly occupied the heavy hampers I lugged downstairs. But I can take heart because even more exciting sporting events are lurking around the corner when the
Winter Olympics kick off, providing, of course, that a sufficient number of Olympic officials are able to make bond.
Personally I prefer the Winter version mainly because they don't make me feel as
guilty as the summer ones do. As I've already pointed out, all the summer Olympic costumes are microscopic, and this doesn't translate well in some sports. Like, it's not too bad for swimmers and track and
field types, but in the case of Greco-Roman wrestling, there's just something kind of icky about two big beefy guys with shaved heads wearing leotards and rolling around on the floor.
But
mostly the summer games make me feel a wee bit guilty about the flab currently on my own out-of-condition carcass. The winter ones don't have this effect on me because I can't just jump up and run down to
the bobsled course or the skating rink when I feel like it. Those who live in Eastern North Carolina understand this. Heck, in a place where it snows and sticks about once every five to 10 years, practices
for say, the luge, would be about once a decade. But I'll admit it -- the lazy side of me likes that schedule.
So I think I'll start training for the giant ski jump or perhaps speed skating. I'll
dress up in one of those costumes that make the athletes look a like a giant Oscar Mayer wiener (you know, Spandex bodysuit with a cunning little hood that flattens one's hair down and makes the old nose
look like it's the size of North Dakota). Then I'll wait for some ice to appear.
In the meantime, I plan to go into serious training so that when I put my wiener suit on I won't have big lumpy places
all over me to detract from the way my muscles ripple. So I'm going to ask my family to make the ultimate sacrifice and use more than two clean towels each time they shower. This would be difficult for my
daughter, of course, because she'd have to cut back on a towel or two. But I know they love me and want me to succeed and will help me any way they can.
And I kind of like the idea of telling people
I can't have any more cake because I'm in training for the Olympics. It sounds much better than the excuse I've been using: I can't have any more cake because I've already eaten it all. And I think I can
probably attract a few corporate sponsors to help me buy a couple of those wiener suits and maybe even a luge or a couple ski poles or something.
In fact, just the other day I was mentioning to the
editor at the newspaper that I was interested in going to the Winter Olympics and he said that as soon as the games were held in the Falkland Islands he'd send me there. Isn't that nice of him?
Heck, I didn't even know the Falkland Islands had snow.
