The Games of the 29th Olympiad...

... are slowly killing us. It's true. We stay up late every night watching the little gymnasts do their thing, or Michael Phelps winning another gold, or the sprinters running faster than anyone's run before. (And can I just say how ironic it is to be sitting on a couch, butt firmly entrenched in the cushions, watching other people push their bodies to the limit and beyond? There's a joke in there somewhere, I'm just too tired to figure it out.) Each night the Olympics keep us up until the wee early hours of the morning, then we snag a few hours' sleep before getting up for work. Throughout the day, we pass each other, bleary-eyed in the hallway, and moan about how the Olympics are killing us. But then, like moths to a flame, we gather in front of the box every night and pay homage to those much more physically fit than we. (Although, frankly, I have to wonder how much training it takes to compete in trampoline. I watched some of the white-hot trampoline action the other day, having never before witnessed the...erm... sport, and I was completely puzzled. At first, when the girl was just jumping up and down on the trampoline, I thought that was the entire thing. I actually shouted, "You've GOT to be kidding me! That's IT? Hell, the neighborhood kids can do THAT.) It's a fun sixteen days, but I'm also looking forward to a more regular sleep schedule. Sleeping: the next great Olympic sport. Now that's something I could medal in!