My friend Al, the cutest girl on Earth™, is the only person who unsurprised by my absolute love of the winter Olympics. I’m sure it’s because the memories of 2006 are fresh in her mind. Most others are surprised because I usually have a policy of complete and total apathy when it comes to organized sports.
It’s the state of constant peril that appeals to me. The summer Olympics just don’t have the same level of danger, or at least it doesn’t appear that way to me. In the summer Olympics it seems the worst that can happen is a runner tripping and skinning her knee. Plus, I could never get behind the idea that giant, hairy men were teaching tiny, barely-pubescent young girls how to fling their bodies into the air. Gymnastics gives me the heebie jeebies.
However, tiny twentysomething women strapping boards to the bottom of their feet and flinging their bodies down a bumpy mountain? That is some kind of awesome, sign me up!
The winter Olympics are roughly 87% better than the summer games because if you trip, you are going to be tumbling down a mountain. Or falling on some ice with blades strapped to your body. That air of danger is riveting. And, as was so sadly demonstrated by the death of the Georgian Luger, very real. I can’t take my eyes off the winter games. I wait with bated breath for someone to fall and then wince as they go skidding down a mountain. That’s entertainment my friends!