Every Olympics season it’s the same thing.  I am up until midnight for two weeks straight, glued to  prime time coverage, suddenly an expert judge,  critiquing gymnastics and diving;  nonchalantly assuming the USA will dominate in swimming;  watching beach volleyball as if I have been following it religiously for four years and was just waiting for the Olympics to roll around again to see my favorites compete.   By day six I am so  bleary eyed I just can’t take it anymore, I go to bed at maybe 11 p.m.  Then it’s back to the grueling schedule, like some kind of Olympian Olympics Watcher trying to get on the podium, hoping that my bobble of going to bed at 11 p.m. instead of midnight does not ruin my chances at a medal, coming in fourth behind some Russian woman across the globe who has greater couch sitting stamina than I.

At work yesterday I was lamenting about this to a co-worker and he shook his head in commiseration, and said that last night before he turned the TV off he noticed there was a movie on that he liked and, unable to peel himself from the couch he found himself still awake at 1:15 a.m.   You kind of get numb.  Like the end of a movie or a baseball game, the hard part is getting up out of your chair.   Which is pretty pathetic when you consider we are watching the world’s greatest athletes.  On the other hand, half of them are in their teens, which is a separate mind boggle of its own.

I think part of it is that I know it won’t be coming around again for another four years, and I don’t want to miss a single minute.  This is only the prime time stuff we’re talking about.  There is so much more going on during the day, I am sad to not be able to see it.  I have a life, after all.  But when the obligatory fillers are aired, showing us flashback videos of Nadia Comaneci flying around perfectly and gracefully in 1976,  Kerri Strug landing her gold medal vault on an injured ankle, the dark haired patriarch of women’s gymnastics, Bela Karolyi, carrying her to the podium to receive her medal, and then interviews with them all older (please don’t go, Bela!), mature women, freckles gone and eyes of an adult,  I remember that this is all fleeting.  That the 15 year olds of today will be the middle aged commentators in the blink of an eye.  I just want to be there as history is made, over and over and over again.

Again at work I was talking to a man in his eighties about Nadia – his eyes lit up as he remembered her astounding us, as if it was yesterday.  Suddenly he was young again, too.  It’s magic, this Olympics stuff.

The other thing I notice about the Olympic effect is that I somehow walk a little taller, a little straighter, as if the young people in the prime of their physical lives have given me a shot of youth by proxy.  It sounds trite, but it truly does inspire me.  To park a little farther from the store entrance.  To be more aware of my posture.  To be a bit more confident, a little more grateful for my good health, a little more aware of the gift my soul has been given with this human body.   To take good care of it.

I guess no matter how old a person gets, it is always part of human nature to dream.  It is much too late for Olympic dreams now, but I can live the dreams vicariously every four years.  I guess that’s ultimately why I forego my sleep for the two weeks.  And why I am always sad when the Olympic torch is snuffed at the end.  The 15 year olds go back to school, they will never be 15 again.  By the time four years rolls around again, they may be out of their prime, but they’ve achieved their dreams, if not winning a medal, at least being able to say “I am an Olympian.”

“Oh say can you see…”  Nope.  I can’t keep my eyes open one more minute.