Now that the swimming portion of the Olympics is over, they have moved into the more artistic (if somewhat impractical) sport of diving. In watching these competitions take place, I get this burning desire to try it myself, to thrill with gravity-defying feats of acrobatic wonder! Then I remember my crippling phobia of heights, and decide that dropping stuff into the sink is about as close as I�m willing to get to actually hurtling my body downward through the air from any kind of precipice. We won�t talk about somersaults and twists, either, because there are probably several technical and artistic deductions for vomiting in the middle of your dive.
I�m not particularly fond of my fear of heights (or �acrophobia�, as it is appropriately called), but I have learned the hard way that it is better to embrace it than fight it, because it can seriously kick my ass. I mean, aerial camera shots in reality TV shows give me vertigo, you know? So rather than go head-to-head with my primal urge to at any cost avoid the possibility of falling to my death -- and, inevitably, such bold expeditions beyond the borders of my psychological comfort zone lead only to extended periods of hysterical shrieking (not pleasant) -- I have learned to accept the fact that I will never fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Or go cliff-diving, or sky-diving, or ever ride another roller-coaster as long as I live.
Don�t feel sorry for me, though. I�m actually quite happy, here on the ground, not potentially falling to my death or otherwise being scared all to hell by machinery that should be no means be going as fast, high, or upside-down as it is. I can live my life very happily without being seized by the physical reaction heights thrust me into. The shortness of breath, the dizziness, the disorientation�doing fine without them, thanks! That�s why I also get the heebie-jeebies when watching events like the trampoline. Which, by the way�seriously. I mean, they do flips and twists and shit, so it�s almost like a gymnastics apparatus, but�it�s the trampoline, you guys! Somebody�s getting a gold medal for that! They wasted perfectly decent gold on a medal for the trampoline.
Anyway, as impressed as I am with the magnificent divers, and their undeniable grace and talent, I find track and field to be much more simpatico with my personal statutes and limitations. Be it also known, at this point, that I am a much stronger runner than I am a swimmer. Body fat being an ill-represented minority in my gene pool, my ancestors and I have historically found surface tension to be a poor substitute for buoyancy, and each of us in turn becomes gravity�s stooge when submerged in liquid. But we can run like the dickens, and I therefore find it much easier to identify with the dashers and the hurtlers, and especially the distance runners (within reason, that is). I find it particularly simple to identify with the racers who crash into the hurtles and go ass-over-teakettle across the track for another three yards or so, all flailing limbs and splintering metatarsals. Like that Canadian woman last night. I felt bad for her, and for the Russian lady she body-checked in the process. That really sucks.
In any case, as I mentioned before, all the track-and-fielding has made me realize how complacent I�d been getting about my own running. I do a tremendous amount of walking these days, but it just isn�t the same thing, you know? So I�m going to redouble my efforts and really try to break a personal record or two.
Just hopefully not my feet.
Someone Got Here By Searching For: bulimic grocery list I�m Watching: Kerry Walsh and Misty May make a clean (but thrilling) sweep of the women�s beach volleyball competition. And: The Amazing Race. If anything truly gives me the heebie-jeebies, it�s Colin.