As I type this I’ve sequestered myself in my office, hiding from these things you people call the Olympics.
I am not a fan. Like Lady Gaga, I’ve never understood the phenomenon. Frankly put, I don’t care for them. In fact, I heartily dislike them.
And as of this last week I’m beginning to think I’m the only one who feels negatively. It’s like an atrocious crime I’m committing when I admit this. Hell, I’m practically Vietcong. The looks of disdain I get when asked about the Olympics and I tentatively step up with, “I’m not a fan…” should be reserved for serial killers or at the very that neighbor who mows the lawn at five in the morning. In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a communist.
I actually lied to my eye doctor last week. LIED about something I could give two shits about.
This is how the conversation went:
Doctor: “Have you been watching the Olympics?”
Me: “Oh, well I—”
Doc: “My wife and I just love the Olympics. We’ve been glued to them every night. Every goddamn night.”
Stares at me. Judges.
Me: “Oh yes. Yes, I love the Olympics as well. Especially the…uh, twirly sports…”
Doc: “Very good then.”
In the interest of self-preservation, what do I really say? The truth? Say out loud, “I seriously detest the Olympics.” Do you know what kind of pariah I’d be? To flat out tell a total stranger you dislike an all-American sport is mind boggling.
And I like boggle.
This isn’t a persuasive piece. I don’t mean to woo you to my side. I just want to tell my side of the Olympics in the hopes there are others so that we may join a support group and eat cookies together.
On Why I Hate the Olympics
1. They remind me how slothful and talentless I am.
All my sins are virtually NOT validated when I watch the Olympics. Sloth is frowned upon and gluttony definitely won’t cut it.
I’m continually reminded of what I can’t do and what I shouldn’t do and also probably, maybe, what I won’t do. My list of cant’s and wont’s grows by the day. Granted, I’m a sorry sack of shit when it comes to exercise so it should come as no surprise that I actually don’t want to watch someone else sweat for a living.
Do you think I want to come home after a long day at work and watch some 16 year old perfect a flip she’s been working on since she was crawling? No. I don’t. I’m sorry. I want to come home and drink my wine, and pretend like my gluteus maximus is the shit.
When I see someone accomplish their life goal at age 18, it reminds me that all I’ve perfected in my day-to-day routine is cleaning the cat box and ordering a pizza in less than 30 seconds flat.
2. My husband bogarts the TV. The Olympics will cause our divorce.
This is another reason why I hate the Olympics. They hijack anything good that’s supposed to be on TV. I mean is it too much to ask that new episodes of Ancient Aliens air? Broadcast and Cable are so scared that the precious Olympics will steal viewers they refuse to air anything new.
But I ask you, History Channel, what about me? WHATABOUTME?
This also leaves me and my husband in a disastrous fight to the death about who owns the remote control. Eventually, because I’m a woman and have weak combat skills, he’ll claim it and I’ll scurry upstairs to watch DVR’d episodes of Duck Dynasty while consoling myself with a bowl of whip cream and peanut butter.
3. I am the least competitive person alive.
You want this medal? Take it. My firstborn child? I’ll wrap it up burrito-style and gift it to you.
Unless there is a piece of cake to fight over (and believe me I’ll claw your eyes out for that) why do I want to watch others try to win something in a sport I never even knew existed?
Also, I know everyone says that the Olympics are some feel-goodery where entire countries can come together in the sheer pleasure of the sport and band together in harmony but I call bullshit on that.
It’s a competition. It’s bound to foster deep seated feelings (AKA hatred) between countries. Just own it Olympics. Change the tagline to: “Our country will kick your country’s ass. And we’ll like it.”
4. The Commentators. OHDEARGOD.
Sports commentary makes me seize up and want to punch something. Something preferably with teeth and a microphone. I imagine this is how men feel when the View is on (hell, I feel that way). I cannot handle the inane commentary and banter between Ryan what-the-fuck Seacrest and Bob Costas and the Cookie Monster.
Everyone is special. Everyone has a wonderful, glorious story that you just must know about. And hear. Again. And again.
I like to train for the Olympics by searching trash cans for empty Coke cans and then punting them into the air. I’m special. Write a story about me.
Or there’s the whole obvious but unnecessary narration of monologue: “He [insert your choice of swimmer’s name] has a tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s in the shape of a seal. Some say it symbolizes his deep seated love of water. What a blessing this man is to the aquatic industry…”
Thanks guys. I’ll be sure to log that away for later reference.
Those are my reasons. Maybe not very valid but I stand by them. I don’t love the Olympics.
I love America. I love apple pie and Patrick Swayze and fireworks and peace and love and motherfucking love. After all, what more could you really want?