The Olympics are back, and my marriage is on the rocks. Oh, not in the traditional sense, where the husband is out and about looking for dates on the dark web or anything like that. No. Martial bliss is rough and rocky right now because the Olympics are a reminder that my husband always wanted to be an Olympian, and he’s not one.
It’s my fault he never lived the dream.
Because, Dear Reader, instead of chasing his Olympic “dream” he started chasing me.
I disavow any responsibility.
“It’s your fault that I never went to the Olympics,” he said. “If you’d quit running away and let me catch you, I wouldn’t have been so distracted. And you always wore that ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt.”
“What’s that got to do with it?” I’m well known for not giving an inch in these discussions.
“You insisted on wearing that shirt with those pink shorts and knee socks—pink, all pink.”
“Are you trying to say that I owned and wore an Olympic dream smashing outfit—on purpose?”
“Yep.” He huddled over various computer screens, trying to figure out how to live stream the 2016 Olympics.
Smiling like Alice’s disappearing cat, I asked, “Have you tried the Dark Web, Dear?”
When he does figure out how to watch the Olympics, it will be one long stream of expert couch coaching. Couch coaching is a symptom of a disease I have termed Coach-of-All-Sports Disorder. Often afflicting hobby athletes and former high school runners, it’s the steadfast belief that no matter the sport, the sufferer knows how to coach it.
Synchronized swimming? Absolutely. Dressage? Of course. Women’s shot putting? You bet.
“Oh man! He came out of his tuck way too early. That’ll cost him,” my husband shouted. He was sitting on the edge of the couch like a raccoon spying a box of Ritz Crackers, clutching the channel changer to his chest, while the light of Olympic glory flamed in his eye.
“I wasn’t aware that you’ve done a lot of spring board diving,” I observed.
“I’ve been to the YMCA.” His eyes never left the television screen.
“That’s a hammy. She’s just blown her hammy. Didn’t warm up enough.” He shook his head in disdain.
“Hammy? How do you know?”
“Hamstring,” he said, waving vaguely to his backside. “Classic injury for long jumpers.”
I tried to recall a time when I had seen him jump farther or higher than our dog when she’s sleeping in front of the fridge. Nope. I had nothing.
And on it goes . . . on and on and on . . . for two long weeks.
If only I’d never worn those pink shorts and derailed his dream.
Hey! Wait a minute! It couldn’t have been much of a goal if all it took was a cute girl in a free Avon ‘Sweet Honesty’ t-shirt and a pair of pink shorts to goof it up.
Linda (Shorts) Zern