Just for the record, I have never thought of myself as an
addictive personality. Okay, yeah, there was the cigarette thing, for which I
blame my college (in those days, the 50’s, they let cigarette companies give
out freebies in the dorms. We all became addicted to Marlboros, along with
playing bridge and knitting argyle socks for our boyfriends. Later we wised up
and quit it all, even in most cases the boyfriends.)
Booze? Nah, never caught on
with me. I still buy wine by the label rather than the vineyard or the year. A
gold-embossed castle carries a lot of weight for me in terms of wine selection.
Or I go for the whimsical name: Fat Bastard has an appeal, as does Roo’s Leap.
And still, castle, bastard, or roo: I often leave half a glass to be tossed out
by the waiter.
Gambling? Porn? Yawn: don’t think so.
But this week (and presumably
next, as well) I am addicted to the Olympics. And I don’t know why.
I am not an athlete, never
have been. I gave birth to two athletes: (one son: captain of his college baseball
team, the other son: tennis team) but the giving-birth part (and the driving to
lessons and games when they were young) was my only physical involvement. Now I
drag myself to my gym reluctantly twice a week but this morning let a mild
snowstorm cause me to cancel.
Nothing, however, seduces me
into canceling my evening in Vancouver. Last night was the Westminster Dog
Show---and everyone knows I’m a dog nut---but I flipped the channel over
briefly just to watch the Tibetan Terrier and then was right back to Snowboard
Cross and Men’s Moguls.
At other, more normal, times
of year, I think a double axel is a car part and a toe pick is a tool for a pedicurist
But now I am obsessively
interested in people with names like Bode and Shani and Pang Qing.
...
