Team USA

It's that time of year again. Well, that time of year, every four years, again.

Yes, folks, it's the time when I get all fired up and decide to become an Olympic athlete.

I get so inspired by these people, I want to be them. Well, not literally; I want to be myself, but do what they are doing. They make it look so easy that I'm nearly certain that with a few months of practice, I can become almost as good as they are, and earn myself a spot on Team USA at the next go-round.

The fact that I cannot run 100 yards without falling over in utter muscular fatigue means nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely beside the point. If I want to be a speed skater or a ski cross skier, or a bobsledder, what's to stop me?

(I'll tell you though, I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to be on the skeleton team. Because the likelihood that you will end up one is just too great.)

I do like watching the figure skaters, but it's not something I have really ever aspired to be. I'm tall, and they're not. It's pretty much that simple. So I just admire them and applaud.

Curling seems to be something I could handle; you don't have to be young, or short, or particularly limber, and while I seem to fit the demographic for women curlers, I'm not sure I could get too excited about participating. Even just watching it isn't very enthralling; I do understand the point of the sport and how it is played (thanks to a quick Google search), but I just plain don't really care. I need adrenaline, people!

Hence skiing, speed skating, and bobsledding. I am not a fan of slow. I cannot slow down, take it easy, be mild, or chill out. More, more, faster, faster! I have an inner speed demon that is simply begging -nay, howling- to be released. Impatience is my middle name. I don't like to wait on anything or anyone. I nearly have siezures when I'm near the middle or back of an airplane and have to wait on all the incompetent idiots in front of me to disembark before I can haul ass outta there. Not because I don't like planes, but because I don't like to wait. I don't care how long you take as long as you let me go by first. I get some kind of psychotic natural high from being first, the fastest, leaving everyone else in the dust. I'm sure there's a complex psychological explanation for this (maybe being the oldest child has something to do with it) but really, I just like to be fast.

But it's not just about being fast. Oh no, I have to be good, too. Artistically sound. Graceful, smooth, confident. I don't want to slide across the finish line on my side, legs flying and arms clutching at thin air. I want to swoosh in with arms held high, fists pumping in the air, the smile of victory gracing my visage.

Fast, however, is the key term here. Everything else is just details. Important details, to be sure, but details all the same.

As soon as I can decide on my sport, I'll start training. I've got four years, you know. Since, in my perfect physical condition (don't everyone hurt yourselves laughing), it should only take a few months, I've got some time. Might as well treat myself to a s'more while I assume the resting position in front of my tv to assess my future competition.

Gotta prep, you know.