Training For The Olympics Is Exhausting

Listen.

I think that I am very possibly suffering from an Olympic hangover.  I suspect this, because after I watched Kerri and Misty win themselves some beach volleyball last night, I went to bed.

At 8:15.

(And do you like how I just call them Misty and Kerri?  Because clearly I am on a first-name basis with them, which is what happens after you’ve cheered them on for four years’ worth of volleyball.  Oh, yes.  Ever since they scooped up the gold in ’08, Hubs and I have been on their tails, watching them whenever we could find them on TV.  So even though they haven’t come over to our house for a big bowl of Cheerios for dinner, I still feel like I know them well enough to simply drop their last names altogether.)

And yes.  At 8:15 last night, I had to call it quits on the Olympics.  I no longer cared what Michael Win It All And Don’t Let Anyone Else Get A Gold Phelps was doing.  I didn’t care if Missy Franklin was going to be in the pool or not.  (Actually, that’s not true.  Missy Franklin is my new favorite, because that is some kind of spunk to have when you’re seventeen!  But she wasn’t swimming at 8:15 last night, so I felt safe throwing her under a bus.)  And even if the girls had been swinging around on the bars in gymnastics last night, I would have had to give my front-and-center ticket (read:  TV) to someone else, because I think I had simply maxed out on all the Olympic coverage.

I felt like I had let my country down, and Hubs didn’t miss the opportunity to confirm it.  HE stayed awake last night to watch all manner of running.

And let’s talk about that.  The running, that is.

Carmelita Jeter is basically elderly, as far as Olympic age goes, and she runs like the wind.  This makes me regret all the slices of frosted lemon pound cake I have bought at Starbucks in the last year, because I’m pretty sure Carmelita was eating lettuce leaves and black coffee and running the beaches at 4:00 in the morning, while I woke up somewhere around 6:30 and stumbled down to Starbucks for some sugar-laced chai.  Carmelita gives me hope that it’s not too late, though, because I suspect that my dreams of becoming a Rodeo Queen are second to my dreams of becoming a Gold Medalist in the Olympics.

In fact, I texted Carrie on Saturday night while Misty and Kerri were playing, and I said, “I’m going to start training for the ’16 summer Olympics in beach volleyball.”  And Carrie simply said, “Don’t ask me to be your partner, because the camera adds ten pounds, and no one needs to see my cellulite.”  Hmm.  I hadn’t considered that.  I then suggested that we team up in judo, because everyone knows that they just wear baggy white pajamas, which totally HIDES ten pounds.  Plus, you can wear your judo pajamas to bed, and simply roll right out in the morning and waltz yourself on in to kicking practice.

And then I remembered that I can’t stand martial arts, and that giving someone a roundhouse kick to the head would bore me to tears.

But I’ll tell you what I’m not doing.

Synchronized diving, because I’m not sure that’s even a sport.  And when the men dive in tandem, I get the willies and have to turn the TV off.  I asked Hubs, “Hey, would you do synchronized diving with one of your friends?”  He got up and left the room without even answering me.  I took it as a fat NO.

And also?  Badminton?  I had no idea you could play that professionally, but MY WORD!  There are some racquet slappers who take their sport very seriously.  Plus, I think I could excel there, because the kids in my PE class actually DO badminton, and I have to say that I am usually the very best player in the gym.

(Never mind that they’re all eight years old.  An eight year old with a racquet is a dangerous thing.  I might as well give them matches to play with.)

But I do feel like at least some of my Olympic training has begun today, because I spent hours moving size 0 to 3 month clothing OUT of Thing 2’s dresser and closet, and moving size 3 to 6 month clothing IN to his bedroom.

And, through it all, Thing 2 whined.  And he fussed.  And he carried on something fierce.  He was not at all pleased with laying on the bedroom floor while I worked.  He wasn’t happy about sitting in his swing while I folded new clothes for him.  He wasn’t excited about sitting in his bouncy chair while I bagged baby items up.  He refused to nap.  He was simply concerned that HEY!  I AM BORED, AND WHY AREN’T WE GOING TO THE PARK TO SWING?  YOU KNOW I LIKE TO SWING AT THE PARK!  I WANT TO VISIT THE PARK SWING!  I CAN SCREAM UNTIL WE GO TO THE PARK!

(We didn’t go to the park.)

I didn’t even get a shower in today, people.

I should be ashamed to tell y’all this, but sometimes this is what happens in life.  What I AM ashamed to tell you is that I helped Hubs finish the retaining wall yesterday when the mercury was bursting out of the thermometers because it couldn’t go any higher, and I am still wearing the same clothes.

(And when I say that I helped Hubs finish the retaining wall, I mean that I stood on some boards that were somewhat warped, while Hubs screwed them into place.  And I held a couple of boards on the table saw.  Clearly, Hubs couldn’t have finished the Great Retaining Wall without me.)

(The Chinese didn’t require as much time to build THEIR wall as we did.)

(But did I mention?  Done!)

(We’re going to bust a can of Lime-A-Rita over the wall and christen it.)

But yes.  My bathrooms are clean.  My laundry is done.  Everything in Thing 2’s dresser and closet actually fit him now, so that Hubs doesn’t have to sift through thirty pairs of pajamas every night before he lands one that we can stretch over the baby’s big barrel chest.  The dusting is done.  The mirrors are clean.  The dining room table is clear of all mail and purses and keys and movie ticket stubs.

And I baked a quiche for dinner tonight.

I’ve been training quite hard today, people.

Oh, I smell an Olympic gold medal on my horizon.  Unless, of course, I’ve developed a second Olympic hangover by then and give up.

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