I’ve just finished watching scores of Olympic athletes parade through a London arena and been slightly befuddled by flying butterfly bicycles.
I’m pretty excited about the next weeks of international competition!
There’s something amazing about seeing humans perform at their highest potential – it’s inspiring.
Not that my body has ever performed at a high level of athleticism or watching the opening ceremony of the Olympics makes me want to become toned and ridiculously fit… but I have been to Olympia, Greece and visited the original location of the Olympics, so that has to be worth something, right?
Checking out all of these high performers has brought about a realization in my husband.
He is not an Olympic athlete.
Now don’t get me wrong – my husband is an athlete. Really. He has spent his life as a competitive soccer player, and along with an uncanny mathematical ability to hang picture frames level and equidistant on any wall, anywhere, he has an unnatural athleticism that allows him to try pretty much any physical endeavor and look like a natural.
The part of me that’s not allergic to sweat is filled with envy and hates him a little for this. The couch potato with no desire to change looks at this ability and wonders how on earth we ever got married since I’m the one who gets a paper cut and takes to my bed for a day while he played many, many soccer games on a fractured foot.
There’s just no accounting for personal taste, I suppose.
The realization he’s not an Olympic athlete comes after spending an evening wakeboarding at our local lake.
That was last night. He had LOTS of fun.
He woke up this morning feeling like he had a hernia in his stomach when he coughed because the muscles in his midsection were enjoying a spasmodic revolt.
Being the kind, supportive, and loving wife that I am, I smirked at him when he admitted his pain and reminded him he’s looking at the mid-30s right in the whites of the eyes.
I think my exact words were, “Did you forget you’re not 17 anymore?”
Yep. I’m a sweetie.
Lizard texted the other men who were wakeboarding with him. The one working in physical therapy admitted to his own pain and texted back, “It’ll be a great day for manual therapy today.” The father of five wrote, “I’m hurtin’ for certain!”
And my smirked turned into a giggle, which turned into laughter.
I’ll be laughing right until the point I turn 42 and wake up one morning needing spectacles to read my Facebook status updates.
Age. It just keeps happening.
As funny as I find this whole wakeboarding situation, I have to give the guys credit – if given the opportunity all of the hurting daddys would go out and do it again today.
This is a fundamental difference between men and women. And I like it.
When’s the last time your muscles tried to go into the death throes?