Olympics

In 2004, I was in Athens during the Olympics, which you'd think would make me an expert, but that's not true.  It was amazing to cross paths with the torch three times and to watch an archery event in person, but there wasn't a way to keep up with all the events all the time.  We were busy.  In 2008, I lived with Jennie and Dusty, and I mostly let them be in charge of the TV.

In 2012, well, I'm obsessed.  Ever since the Opening Ceremonies on Friday, Liz and Jess and I have an agreement--we wait until everyone is home, or at least until 8:30, and then we use our handy dandy DVR to start from the beginning of primetime coverage and watch all four hours.  Every night.

Amy said Liz and I should be synchronized cheerers, and if that were an event, we would take home the gold, no problem.  When a gymnast falls off the pommel horse or someone's face falls when their score comes up, we both groan and tear up (though Liz is definitely the lead crier...she tears up at least ten times a night).  When someone ends their routine or pulls off their swimming goggles with a grin and pumps the air, or when an athlete and their coach share a boulder-meets-mountain hug, we grinningly coo and flap our hands at each other.

I'm the obnoxious viewer who, despite a complete lack of sports knowledge, suddenly becomes an expert after watching an event for five minutes.  "Ooo, that was a slow kick off the wall, he's really going to have to speed it up to catch Agnel (stupid Agnel)."  "15.221?  Are you kidding me!?  He deserved a 14.879 at the MOST."

Liz is the Michael Phelps fan, and swimming enthusiast by default.  She's also, as stated before, the emotional center of our Olympics viewing club.  When she gets particularly excited, she leaps from the couch to try out her own gymnastics skills in the living room, and when she goes to the kitchen for a snack, she usually leaps through the doorway, then clutches her hip but sticks the landing.

Jess is the commentator.  When Phelps says something stupid like "I'm the first Michael Phelps" she goes off on a tirade about how prideful he is.  When he hugs his teammates or graciously accepts defeat, she congratulates whoever told him he needed to tone the arrogance down.  All the while, Liz flutters and defends him, and I look on in amusement.  Jess is also the commentator because she is best at paying attention.  Halfway through a swim race, I'll ask, "Wait, which lane is Missy in?" and she'll know.  Or on round 4 of synchronized diving, Liz will say, "Who's ahead, Mexico or Great Britain?" and Jess will know.

Amy watches sometimes, though usually just to comment on which guys are cute (they are nearly all cute, they're Olympians) or how it's weird for people to kiss.  She isn't much interested in sports, she says.  Which, um.  Neither am I.  I didn't understand why I am so invested in the Olympics until Jess said, "It's not the sports.  It's the athletes."

And it is.  Squinch little Missy Franklin.  And the whole socially awkward adorable women's gymnastics team.  And Danell, the comeback kid.  And that gorgeous GB diver who is only just now legal.  I love watching people's dreams come true, or bouncing back from disappointment, or graciously accepting defeat.  This is the drama of life, played out every night on NBC.  I love it.