After my ten-day-long involuntary snow-cation (thank you, Snowmaggedon), I couldn't wait to get back to work. Still, I was relieved that my daughter's school system and the federal government declared a two hour delay on the return day. Not just because of icy sidewalks, snow-clogged traffic lanes, and delayed metro trains. It's because I stayed up too late - until well after midnight - the night before watching the Chinese pair figure skaters clinch the gold and silver medals at the Vancouver Olympics.
I'm an Olympic junkie. With a fixed addiction for the Winter Olympics. (In fact, I'm sitting in front of the TV right now blogging while watching the women's luge final.) I'm absolutely riveted by the speed, strength, and grace of the skaters, skiers, ski jumpers, snowboarders, sledders, lugers, and other athletes. (Of course, the tragic death of a Georgian luger in a training run reveals the other side - danger - of these Winter Olympics sports.)
I love the spectacle of the Opening Ceremonies even if their reported $40 million price tag seems callous and vulgar in this worldwide recession. I stay glued to the TV despite the commercials every two minutes. (O.K., I'm exaggerating. Just a little.) I lap up all the behind the scenes drama - the syrupy love stories, the comebacks after life-threatening injuries and illnesses.
And this year, I'm following the six moms - six working moms - on the U.S Olympic team. That's six moms out of a total of 93 female competitors on the U.S. Olympic roster. To put this in perspective, there are only 17 dads out of 123 male athletes competing for the United States. This is not your preschool playdate crowd.
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