I quit the Olympics
I used to fantasize about being an Olympian.
I thought the Olympiad an honorable institution.
I got a C in gym class because I couldn’t complete the rope-climb.
No one ever showed me how.
My friends discouraged me from playing basketball,
because I’d scratch them with my nails.
I was never a strong swimmer.
I’ve had 3 brushes with death in open water.
Breaking my toe playing volleyball
eliminated further goals towards athleticism.
But I still fantasized.
I particularly wanted to do the Steeplechase. I was so disappointed when I learned my high school track and field department did not include steeplechase.
I once missed out on a role in a film because I shared the fact that my father broke both his legs while skipping rope, and I inherited those genes.
I was always twisting an ankle or banging a knee.
I once broke my foot when a sandal slipped on a step in a manicured garden, sending said foot into an unfortunately placed brick. I could have owned that country club, were I the litigious sort. But I just sucked it up, and took one for the team: didn’t want to sour relations with my new employer at the company picnic.
I quit the Olympics. Without discussing its racism, sexism, and imperialism.
Olympic Village still sounds like a hoot.