The Olympics are almost here.
Another round of watching people who I’ve mostly never heard of competing in sports that I’ve never played.
Another round of wishing I’d become an Olympic diver. I actually went to a diving class with this in mind, but the fanciest dive they taught us was a swan dive from the 3 meter springboard. No flips, twists, tucks, pikes, and we never touched the 10 meter springboard — and this was the advanced class that our recreation system offered.
Another round of me complaining that it used to be for amateur athletes, and now we’re sending all these NBA all-stars instead, because winning is more important than giving the spotlight to up-and-coming athletes.
In most cases, I’ll be a good kid and root for the Americans…or just some random athlete or team who catches my eye regardless of what flag they are competing under (except in soccer…I always root for Brazil because of my fun experience with their world cup team in 1994).
But when the swimming comes on, I’ll be cheering for anyone but Michael Phelps.
And it has nothing to do with his pot smoking or his Subway commercials.
Back in 2008 (the last time I dated anyone), my at-the-time girlfriend made a big show out of the fact that she would forget me in a heartbeat if it meant a night with him.
I’m not talking about one of those “we each have one fantasy person that we have permission to screw” deals that couples in sitcoms always seem to have. It wasn’t just her saying “Wow, that boy’s fine. I’d sure like to do naughty things with him.”
It was more of, at least once a day, her saying “I love you, Kenny, but you know if I’d leave you for Michael Phelps and his teeth in a heartbeat” (she was especially infatuated with his teeth). And it wasn’t just if she saw him on TV, either. Just out of the blue, she’d bring him up and talk about leaving me for him.
So Michael, it’s nothing personal. You seem like a nice enough guy. But I hope you lose. You’re bad for my self esteem. You’re bad memories.