My Left Knee

Is hurting. I had the good sense to remember my knee brace, and wore it to the gym right after work. Now my right knee hurts, but I gave myself quite a workout on the treadmill. Now I've got to run downstairs (I'm still at work, but everyone's gone) and take a shower. Their shower is awesome, so much stronger and -- dare I say it? -- cleaner than mine. Then it's off to La Madeline for a French dinner, and finally, to see that new Wes Anderson movie at the Arbor.

Before I go, some random thoughts on the Olympics:

Michael Phelps is my new hero. I can’t imagine how he must have felt after that first race, when he didn’t even medal, and Ryan “This is my time” Lochte got the gold. Did he wonder if those who had questioned his work ethic were right? Did he have visions of performing just as badly in his subsequent races, and leaving his Olympic record tarnished? Did he imagine Lochte completely eclipsing him, reminiscent of Olga Korbut in 1976, when Nadia Comaneci suddenly made her look old? No. Apparently elite athletes are very different animals than the rest of us, so he stepped it up. And I loved what he said in his interview with Bob Costas – that he got exactly the medals that he deserved in this Olympics, and that maybe he could have gotten more gold if he’d trained harder, but “I didn’t want to.” Good for him.

Carmelita Jeter is totally doping. Totally.

I’m getting tired of Michael Phelps’ mother.

Ryan Lochte’s mother’s comment about how her son’s busy training schedule restricted his social life to “one night stands” was hilarious. So was her outrage that anyone would misinterpret that remark. So was Ryan’s statement that his mother was “oblivious.”

I love Kate, William and Harry.

Is it just me, or was it really hard to get into gymnastics this year? Maybe it’s because we know so much more about that sport than we used to. (OMG, read “Little Girls in Pretty Boxes” about figure skaters and gymnasts, it’s a mind-blower). Watching them, I think lovely thoughts about girls starving themselves, stunting their growth, being bullied by egomaniacal trainers, going to God-knows-what-lengths to stave off puberty, and all I see are indistinguishable little automatons with babyish voices. Again, maybe it’s me.