Olympic material or Ozempic material?

For the Win!

It's Olympics time!

I love to watch all the sports, even the ones where the athletes look like they breakfast on bowls of multivitamans every morning. I prefer the ones where they look like they eat bowls of doughnuts, but Sumo wrestling is still waiting its turn at the Olympics.

But I follow Simone Biles like fairytale children follow bread crumbs through the forest, so I’m tuned in with a front-row recliner to see how the games play out.

Watching the qualifying rounds for gymnastics on a screen large enough to reveal which athletes floss their teeth, I couldn’t help noticing some details. First, that other people in the house get testy if they can’t see the action.

Bill: For heaven’s sake, you’re fogging up the screen when you exhale.

Me: I want to see if  the gymnasts have panty lines.

Bill: You just sucked three lights off the Eiffel Tower. Snoop Dogg’s Doo Rag flew past and landed on the Pit Bull. It looks like he's wearing a red, white, and blue toga.

Some people don't appreciate the spirit of the Olympics.

ANYWAY, I made a list of differences I discovered between Olympic athletes and me. I just have to make a few minor adjustments and I’ll be ready to audition for the 2028 games in Los Angeles. I'm looking at you, Sumo wrestling.

Things I noticed about Olympic athletes:

1.  They dress up nicer to sweat than I do to eat Heath bars in my living room. An internationally famous gymnast had bigger sparkles under her eyebrows than Galileo charted in the night sky. If I tried that trick, I’d blind myself. My hands are so shaky these days that when I put on mascara, my eyelids look like a bar code.

2.  Wedgies are a fashion accessory. I don’t mean the shoes that look like you’re standing on little hills, I mean when your bathing suit, leotard or other essential athletic paraphernalia becomes wedged between the gluteus and the maximus giving the viewers maximus exposure and the athlete maximum discomfort. There are divers I could pick out of a lineup without ever seeing their faces.

3.   They take longer to pack to leave the arena that I do to go on vacation. I learned to pack from my son. He tosses his laptop and tablet in a bag, cushions it all with spare socks, sticks his phone in his pocket, and heads for the car. I watched as the American gymnasts carefully folded warmup clothes, tucked in their personal equipment, meticulously ascertained that all was secure, hoisted their bags and paraded ceremoniously three yards (that’s 2.7432 meters European) out of the arena. Now I’m self-conscious that I don’t pack a bag to go to the bathroom.

4.   The swimmers cover their bathing suits with puffy coats. Finally, something we have in common. I have a muumuu made out of blackout curtains that I wear over my suit to guard against frightening small children and wayward sea turtles at the beach.

5.  All in all, it's good to be reminded that heroes are made from everyday people. The pommel horse specialist who clinched the bronze medal for the American men’s gymnastics team turned from Clark Kent to Superman when he took off his glasses. 

Maybe I AM Olympics material. When I take off my glasses, I fly through the room like Wonder Woman.

But usually it’s because I trip over the dog.

 Cry Me a River That Flows Past Park Place

I never cry, even if I drop the last bite of brownie in the kitty litter where the five second rule doesn’t apply,

I don’t cry at baseball, even though my team manages to lose in creative and expensive ways each season.

I don’t cry when I’m picked last for teambuilder activities, even though I was the acknowledged and celebrated Red Rover champion in the fifth grade and the only girl on the First Baptist softball team who could catch a pop fly.

I don’t cry at tearjerker movies that are written for the express purpose of generating tears (unless it’s Secondhand Lions and that’s the law).

But there is one thing that makes me cry like a newly crowned Miss America with the cameras rolling.

I’ll clue you in, but you have to promise not to tell.

Pinky swear.

It’s. . .

Monopoly.

I’m not sure if that’s why I’m banned from playing it at my house, but there’s a reason that during the last game we ever played, Son I, William the Conqueror, gave me an extra life and called it Monopoly: The Bailout Edition.

All I know is that if someone that I carried in my body for nine months can charge me $1,200 to stay at his hotel for five minutes without even considering an AARP discount, he wasn’t raised right and I’m a failure as a mother.

Son I regularly takes top honors in Careers, Sorry, Uno, and The Barbie Game and I live to fight another day even when he insists on playing by the rules on the box instead of House rules.

Son II (The Pokemon Master, for those of you in the know), has reigned as the Connect Four champion since he was eight years old. I would brag about him in my knitting circle if I could knit.

But Monopoly is personal.

Anyone who can refuse his mother bail when she’s been behind bars for more than three turns is a menace and shouldn’t be allowed to pass Go.

I can’t catch a break, or break even for that matter.

I can’t hop a freight train. (I have all the railroads, Mom. You owe me extra.)

I have poor design sense. (None of your colors match, Mommo. If you get any money, try to buy properties with the same color.)

I need magic dice. (Motherrr, I own all the properties on that side; you need to roll 15.)

I regret the days I let this kid win at Candy Land.

The money was still wet when we put the game away for the last time and passed around bandages to the competitors. Everyone agreed that the additions of Senior discounts and Buy One Get One Free offers enhanced game play.

The family Monopoly game still looks like new. My guys are grown now and life is busy.

But I can always find a way to start a conversation.

I say, “Hey, does anybody want to play Monopoly?”

Then I sit back and watch the fun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

 

 

 Fashion Forward

Clad in Star Wars finest - Vintage Hand-Me-Up BB8 TShirt.
Not pictured{Black pants, flowered Skechers, no socks, dog making fun.)

I hoped that by the time I reached the seasoned age of 65, I would have plucked the fruits of wisdom, experience, and knowledge from the Tree of Life. Instead, what I have plucked is a situation where a husband who can’t tell stripes from plaid is in charge of my wardrobe. How hard can it be to see if the lines cross?

Remember when Daddy dressed the kids and their teacher thought they’d run away from home? It’s like that, but with the added adventure of foundation garments.

I’m not man bashing. I’m fortunate to have a husband who has taken over every household chore now that walking to the bathroom has turned into an Olympic event for me. He’s not only mastered all of my secret recipes, he has cracked every excuse I ever invented for ordering pizza instead of peeling potatoes.

The trouble comes when I need to wear matching clothes for, say, a trip to the specialist of the day. The time has come when I collect doctors like a lumberjack collects splinters. Neurologist, orthopedist, cardiologist--I’m looking for two more ists to make a full house. Each one wants to feel my ankles and tell me to drink more water. I considered contacting Aquaman for a consultation, but Jason Momoa thwarted that plan when he took out the restraining order.

I don’t mind the clothes adventures as much as the comments from passers by when we go out. Here in the South, we have a saying, Bless Your Heart, that means everything from “I’m sorry to hear about your mama,” to  “dumb as a sack of hammers.” I’ve been blessed enough times in the past year to earn me the favored spot in grandaddy’s toolbox.

Getting ready for a doctor’s appointment, I allow an extra 4-6 weeks to allow for searching for clothes that have got lost in the laundry or have been donated to charity due to unfortunate bleach or spaghetti sauce incidents.

The following interaction may or may not be true:

Bill: “How about these pants?”

Fashion Victim: “They’re yours.”

Bill: “That’s good. Everything goes with khaki.”

FV: “And they’ve got those handy cargo pockets to hide problem thighs.”

I won’t go into the difference between navy and black (there is none) or socks that match (they don’t) and have sacrificed all claim to jewelry that can’t be clamped on or stuck on with adhesive. Two-sided tape is no longer a luxury.

Shopping online, I purchased a navy and white striped top that could be worn with any of the ten pairs of navy blue pants hanging in my closet at any given time. Last Tuesday I sallied forth to the doctor in a black and tan shirt, blue pants, and school bus yellow socks festooned with pictures of racoons.

The receptionist smiled sweetly and spoke.

“Bless your heart.”

That’s it. No more doctor trips for me. But when you call for Emergency Responders, tell them to bring extra socks.