Don't Call Me, I'll Call You

It happens every two years. That song plays (you know the one), the torch is lit and I am instantly glued to the t.v. for the next two weeks. I LOVE the Olympics. The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. I love it all.

I am currently recording about 8 hours of Olympics each day and watching most of it (thanks to the DVR, I actually only have to watch about 6 hours). And it really doesn't matter what they show, I watch it all. Curling, cross country skiing, biathlon. I don't discriminate.

Now, as a rule, I root for the Americans. I am completely nationalistic. I don't care what your story is or how hard you have worked for it, I am cheering for the American, not you. Actually, if you are in the American's way, I am generally rooting for you to fall, slip, drop your curling ball, whatever. I don't want you to get hurt, just lose. The exception is when there aren't any Americans in contention. Then I get completely sucked in by the little stories and find myself cheering for some obscure Estonian competing in their 5th olympics whose uncle's dying wish was that they win a gold medal and this is their last chance to fulfill that wish. Go Marit or Petra or whoever you are (I generally can't pronounce the last name so it's first names only).

I get all worked up. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I scream at the t.v. The other night, I found myself leaning foward, back, side to side, all in a bid to help Seth Wescott win the goal medal in snowboard cross. He won by the way, thanks to my help.

So for the next week and a half, I am watching the Olympics. Don't call me, I probably won't answer the phone.