Olympic Dreams

{or "How I Have Finally Come to Accept That I Will Never Be an Olympian"}

It's been such fun watching the Olympics. I've always loved watching the Games – the ceremony, the peaceful gathering of delegates from so many countries, the celebration of hard work and personal accomplishment. Have you seen those badminton players? It's UNREAL! And the synchronized divers!? WTH? How on earth do they get that synchronized?

My first memory of the Olympics was the 1976 games when Nadia Comaneci did her perfect "10" thing. I was swept up in the hype. I was in such awe of this young, darling Romanian girl – I wanted to be friends with Nadia. Better yet, I wanted to be Nadia.

Our Scholastics book order advertised a book on the life of Nadia and her rise to Olympic perfection. I bought it and read it over and over. I started taking gymnastics and discovered with disappointment that everything was a lot harder than she made it look, and my talent was limited. I was small, but I wasn't strong, and when my coaches said they didn't think I would ever be that great it didn't make me want to prove them wrong, it made me want to cry and give up. So that's what I did.

Thirty-five years later and I still adore Nadia. During this last week NBC has highlighted her successes and even run a few minutes of old footage from that year. Suddenly I am in grade school again, so enamoured with her and so disappointed in myself . . . that I wasn't good enough to be like her.

Sadly, it's not just Nadia that makes me feel that way. Watching Gabby Douglas take gold the all-around made me want to start practicing my back-handsprings again (that would be quite a hefty hospital bill). Then last night I watched those two speedy Jamaican guys run the 100-meter and I decided I wanted to try to run, like really fast. "I've got to get in better shape," I said to my husband and kids, and they just shook their heads and rolled their eyes at each other (Oh brother, here we go, Mom's losing her mind again). Here's the thing about me: when I see others, passionate and hard working, I am instantly intoxicated. I want to be them, to do what they're doing, to work that hard, to reap the rewards. When I don't or can't, I somehow turn their success into disappointed in myself for not being that good.

Today, at 42-years-old, I finally got a grip. I looked at myself in the mirror, and here's what I said:

Jenny, you will never be a gymnast and you will never go to the Olympics - for ANY sport, ever. BUT THAT'S OKAY. It's really okay. You can stop beating yourself up about it now. From now on, you just need to be you. Practice being you every day.

I don't know if it will work or not. I'll let you know. I do know that I watched women's soccer today and I didn't even lament my short-lived, lame soccer-playing days in 6th grade (I was too polite. "No really, you take the ball, you were here first"). Maybe I'm on my way to recovery. Maybe I'm finally growing up. Whew - it's about time.

Wait. A. Stinkin'. Minute.
. . . Did I just take the Olympic Games and somehow make it about ME? Man, I have issues.