The Olympics are upon us. Soon I will cry in support of the accomplishments of the athletes, and I will shout at the screen at their defeats, and I will silently wish it was me — on the track, in the water, on the mat. Sadly, however, the activities at which I excel are not on the roster of Olympic events.
But, if they were . . . I could surely medal in . . .
1. Car tweeting.
I live in a small house with five nosy children in double digits of life. We only have one bathroom. They use my bedroom as a lounge. I live on a busy street in front, fishbowl alley in back. No privacy. But I enjoy Twitter and if I want any time to discreetly exchange pleasantries or profanities with my friends who live in my phone, I sit in my car. It’s kind of like making out in a car in high school because there was nowhere else to go. But now I’m alone in my car or, alternatively, I’m with my fluctuating number of Twitter followers. Either way, I am a master of the car tweet. Ask my Tweeps.
I don’t know what I’m going to do when my oldest gets his driver’s license . . . and a girlfriend. I won’t do well sharing my car time.
2. Ex avoidance.
I am Ninja Ex. I’m here, I’m there, I’m everywhere — for the kids. But when the Ex is around, I can get in and out like a whore at a baptism. It really is quite impressive. It was a skill I learned from practicing law, where the most important part of an adversarial meeting is actually getting out of the building without having your client endure sharing an elevator with his or her opponent. A well-timed bathroom break does the trick, or simply quietly walking away without looking back, like Jason Bourne. As Ninja Ex I know the fastest exits from the school parking lot and where to enter a playing field or concert hall, choose the best spot to cheer on my children and be seen by them, yet remain out of the Ex’s eye-line, should he happen to appear. I send the kids out for his visits and he returns them to me yet I — remain — unseen.
Batman ain’t got nothing on me.
It’s been a solid year since I’ve been less than a fifty feet from my former husband, and more than that since there has been eye-contact. As my therapist put it, “I see no reason why you ever have to see him.” So I don’t. I’m just following doctor’s orders, you see — like a champ. An Olympic champion.
Two medals ain’t bad.
But not only would I medal, I say I would get the gold! I would stand proud and misty eyed while my country’s instrumental national anthem is blared from high-powered speakers to a cheering crowd and over the internet to millions of people in their homes.
Except of course, if my Ex showed up, then — poof!— Me and my medals would be gone. A handshake, a wave — and I would be sitting in my car at the parking lot at Dunkin’ Donuts, exchanging 140 characters of Twitter-wisdom about my experiences.
To be fair, I’m good at other things, like managing meager amounts of money and pretending to be Beyoncé in my kitchen, but every superior competitor knows when to focus on those one or two events that truly bring glory and a chance at a medal. I’ve outlined mine. We can’t all come home with a fistful of shiny medals. I’ll take my two and leave — like I was never there.
I think I’m tearing up a bit just thinking of it.
Just Me With . . . dreams of the gold.