The Chairperson clears her throat to begin the meeting.
Chair: Welcome to Olympic Watching Anonymous. I'm Olympia, and I'm an Olympaholic.
Room: Hi, Olympia!
Chair: Is there anyone new here tonight?
Me (simultaneously raising hand and standing): Me. I'm Jen and I'm an Olympaholic.
Room: Hi, Jen!
Chair: Why don't you tell us your story …
Me: … well, for me it all began in '76, the year Nadia scored a perfect ten …
Room: Ah … yes … Nadia.
Hons, I am an Olympics junkie. I love the Olympics. Always have. I love to learn about the host city and hear some of the athlete's back stories. So far, I have logged in over fifty hours watching the Games this year. Sure that's a lot, but I feel that I could've done more.
Plus, the Olympics is the only time that ping pong is on TV.
Plus, the Olympics is the only time that ping pong is on TV.
Yep, I watched quite a bit of ping pong this weekend. Know what? The ping pong players are in amazing shape. They are all muscly and stuff. It's incredible.
Generally speaking, I associate ping pong mostly with dank basements and bad panelling, but at the Olympics ping pong is held in high regard. Those kids don't have to play in basements, they get an arena, with bright lights and no panelling. That's big time, baby.
I've never really played ping pong, probably because I've always been afraid of getting injured from it.
Don't laugh. Ping pong is a risky, injury laden sport.
My husband has played. He even has a scar from it. In his eyebrow.
Who knows? I could have oodles of untapped ping pong talent. I could have a reservoir of unknown ping pong potential. Of course, I'd probably have to stop referring to it as ping pong and call it by it's given name: table tennis.
That's what separates the basement dwelling amateurs from the high caliber Olympic athletes, you know. The simple act of referring to the sport as table tennis instead of ping pong. I can do that and I haven't even picked up a paddle yet.
Cue the Star Spangled Banner because, clearly, I'm on my way to the top of the podium.
Wait. Is picturing yourself on the podium accepting a gold medal while the American flag is being raised considered a delusion of grandeur? Especially if you are a slightly doughy thirty-nine year old Midwestern woman whose athletic abilities are limited to roller skating, hula hooping, and Skee Ball?
Probably.
I think I need help. Serious, Dr. Phil type help because I am an Olympics junkie.
Pin It Now!
Who knows? I could have oodles of untapped ping pong talent. I could have a reservoir of unknown ping pong potential. Of course, I'd probably have to stop referring to it as ping pong and call it by it's given name: table tennis.
That's what separates the basement dwelling amateurs from the high caliber Olympic athletes, you know. The simple act of referring to the sport as table tennis instead of ping pong. I can do that and I haven't even picked up a paddle yet.
Cue the Star Spangled Banner because, clearly, I'm on my way to the top of the podium.
Wait. Is picturing yourself on the podium accepting a gold medal while the American flag is being raised considered a delusion of grandeur? Especially if you are a slightly doughy thirty-nine year old Midwestern woman whose athletic abilities are limited to roller skating, hula hooping, and Skee Ball?
Probably.
I think I need help. Serious, Dr. Phil type help because I am an Olympics junkie.
