Fancy That!

"Yuck, I don't like their outfits at all!"

My current colleague/future husband turned and leered at me, "they are NOT outfits, they are uniforms. There are no outfits in sports".

"Alright, I don't like their uniforms, at all."

It was our first date, then called an outing as we were coworkers, but now remembered as a date as we eventually married, a very hot and muggy day of baseball.

More than 10 years later I suffer through 17 days of Olympic competition with Mr. Rule. To be certain, there are few things more painful than watching men's figure skating with my husband, the fully out there straight man who fancies himself a sport authority. There is nothing uniform about these outfits.

"What is this guy wearing? Oh come on, this one is dressed as a clown! Feathers! That is a woman!" he rolls from his spot on the sofa for a better look. I peek over the top of my computer, "nice outfit". He looks back at me, "there are no outfits in real sports, nor is there music."

We move on to ice dancing. Offended by the very idea, compounded by the truly distasteful clothing, he refuses to watch, but like a a true disaster, he is drawn in. "What is THIS? Cowboys! I'm embarrassed. Who else can they offend? It's not just the Aborigines anymore." Walking in mid Hava Nagilla, "oh please God tell me they are from Israel". And to torment him, when Jack finally sat down to watch the team from the UK skate to Johnny Cash, I let them finish into that pile of pretzel like skating body twist before I announced, "they are brother and sister you know". It's my opinion that the scream that sent him running from the room should be assigned to the very clear and specific visual image he found in his head of he and his sister wrapped in a similar crab on crab formation. We are forever grateful that we missed the tango portion of the competition.

Last night I sat down to women's ski cross. Jack walked in just as Ophelie David from France was announced, "What's this? Oh, I thought we already watched men's cross". Ophelie David is a woman. Perhaps if she could bedazzle, or add some feathers to her outfit, maybe that would be helpful.

But not a snake, that would simply be too much.

Rejection

Rejection hurts.

It hurt in seventh grade and it hurts now, we've been rejected, all nine million of us. A collective slapping offered by the IOC, much to our shock, and to some, dismay. Maybe it would have been easier to take had it not happened at the first round, when some of us, myself included, sat smugly watching, certain that it was not Chicago whose name would be called. But I was wrong, and I sat in disbelief, certain that there had been a mistake, in no way was I prepared for rejection this early.

In Olympic terms, we didn't even medal. Knocked out in the first round, we were pushed off the podium by a swift kick from Juan Antonio Samaranch, our flag would not fly, and certainly our national anthem would not be played. There would be no bronze or silver dangling from our big shoulders, no large bouquet of flowers in our husky arms.

Rather than join the stunned masses, once waiting to celebrate but now standing in disbelief, I walked through my city and got on the subway to go home. On this gloomy, cold and rainy day, there were many of us who thought the same thing; we crowded on, wedged together, not enough seats, too many bodies. Of course one of the issues presented by the IOC was our faltering public transportation system: always crowded, old and sometimes stinky, forever behind schedule. I love the trains, they are not new, not efficient; like Chicago, they are tested and worn. As is the mayor, often appearing disheveled and rumpled, he is a spokesperson for a city who that is not always polished and perfect but warm and open and full of energy.

As a mother who reacts when her child was not chosen for kickball at recess, I look around defensively and think "what do they know, it's their loss". From my window I look out over Millennium Park, and the beautiful lake. The drive in from the south side always takes my breath away, especially at night when the city lights up and sparkles. The people on the subway, from all corners of the world, know something the IOC missed, Chicago is a wonderful place to call home.

Maybe we don't need an Olympics to remind us how lucky we are, but it would have been nice to have the opportunity.

No Go Gold

Shock, sadness and disbelief. As if the Cubs were just eliminated, yet again, but we already lived through that this year, and this is even worse. Because unlike the mantra that we live by every September, there will not be a next year, this was it. And for reasons unknown, but speculated about wildly, there will be no Olympics in Chicago in 2016.

Gold

For two weeks in February Laura and I sat glued to the television, devoting as much time as possible, while balancing school and social life, to the Winter Olympics. If we weren't together watching, we were on the phone. Laura loved the action; I loved the medal ceremonies, and Jim McKay, and the fascinating tours of Sarajevo. There was Bill Johnson, Torvil and Dean, and my new personal hero, Debbie Armstrong. She won the gold in the giant slalom, a complete unknown, and we had the same sweater; I thought maybe we were soul mates. At that point I was fairly certain the giant slalom was my golden ticket. Maybe if I worked very hard and skied every day, maybe I could be the Debbie Armstrong of the 1988 games.

There were just a few problems with that plan, the two previous knee surgeries and lack of any formal training being secondary to my limited proximity to anything vertical, having just enrolled at the University of Kansas . So maybe I could just go to the 1988 games, that became our plan. Laura and I would be seniors in college then, we could take the semester off, and the games were to be in Calgary, just up the road, we could work at the Olympics! Genius!

Calgary was spectacular, and I watched every bit of it on my television in Lawrence, Kansas. My Olympic dreams continue, the flame comes closer to home, Chicago 2016. Not everyone is pleased but politics, and sensibility, aside, I am giddy. Now, my sport options are limited as I will be about 70 when this actually happens. All my hopes and dreams are now focused on the torch relay, but I will have to do something to make myself worthy of such an honor. Hero, that's my best guess, do something heroic and earn myself two minutes with the great flame. Being a big chicken, this is not going to be easy. It certainly need not be a great moment, I'm not shooting for the final carrier, as wonderful as that might be I would suppose that spot might be reserved for someone like, oh maybe Michael Jordan. Oprah will probably get a leg, maybe Ernie Banks, but Chicago is a big city, and Greece is very far away, certainly they can find room for me.

Chicago 2016, I'm hopeful. Laura, do you want to come over? We'll be here.