Pardon my rudeness (my Nana would be appalled and would SO give me a little talking to about being impolite in public) but I’m slightly sleep deprived.
Damn Olympics. Keeping me up until all hours with their sexy athletic allure.
And I’m not just talking about the well-sculpted torsos of all those boy swimmers.... OK, I’m mostly talking about that, but not totally.
It’s like I’m the Games' oh-so-accommodating booty call. Just when I think I’m able to walk away, to turn off the telly, resigned to discovering what the results are online in the morning, Bob Costas and His Horrible Hair tempt me with a “coming up next” and I’m a goner. They’ve got me right where they want me.
In bed. And willing.
So, so tempting.
Side bar: Seriously --- what is up with Costas’ hair?
Is it a piece?
Is there a low-flow shower head in his hotel? And if that’s the culprit, you know he’s not staying at the Beijing Westin because their Heavenly Shower would never make anyone’s hair look that bad.
Plus, as my BFF Sprezzatura says, there is just something wrong with a man of that age not having even a pinch of salt and pepper in his locks.
So, in no particular order, here are the Olympic items whose siren's call I cannot resist, no matter how hard I try:
Lochte (my GATOR boy!)
Did I mention Phelps? OK -- how about Phelps’ obliques -- better known as shhhh... the phuck muscles. C'mon. Isn't that appropriate. Just look at them for goodness sake...
The unbelievable physical prowess of these athletes. This is perhaps the only sport where I have a frame of reference, as I love to swim and was a lifeguard/swimming instructor for a couple of summers. So I have a bit of an idea about the basic mechanics of this sport. And what these modern day Tethyses and Poseidons are accomplishing is nothing short of jaw droppingly amazing.
Bela Karolyi and his charming passionate incoherentness.
The questionable ages of those Chinese women gymnasts. C’mon. One of them was MISSING A TOOTH... time to count the baby teeth, people. Like the rings on a tree, teeth don’t lie.
The power and majesty of the male gymnasts, who couple remarkable strength with poise and artistry.
The loveliness of the female gymnasts, both in the gym and otherwise. I’m struck by how wonderfully uniquely American our two champion ladies are -- a graceful gold medalist born in Moscow to an Olympic champion daddy and a midwest powerhouse coached by a native born Chinese. So cool. So beautiful.
The hysterically stereotypical music played between points on the Beijing beach. Lots of Beach Boys and Bob Seger, y’all. God Bless American culture. At least as perceived by the rest of the world.
The teamwork and genuineness of the players. They really seem to like one another. Refreshing.
Misty May. Gorgeous woman. Fantastic athlete. But I’m sorry -- that name just screams money shot.
And that’s not even covering all the other events that wink and smile at me during the day -- Rowing. Fencing. Cycling. Water polo (mmmm...) And of course, basketball. It’s tough cheering for Kobe, but damn it, it’s my patriotic duty to root for him -- even if it is through clenched teeth. (PS: No Celtics on Team USA? Sigh. Break my heart, why dontcha...)
So yeah. I’m an Olympic hoochie. And proud of it. Because I’m an American. Not an American’t. And I owe it to these athletes (and the evil geniuses at NBC Sports) to come when they call. To be available for whatever. To leave quietly and go to sleep when it’s all over -- with no emotional discussions about a long term commitment, since this is going to be a brief yet meaningless relationship. They know it. I know it.