palace of winds

I drag myself away from men’s gymnastics far, far too late, shuffling off to bed with my monstrously sore throat, knowing I should have gone an hour ago, two hours. In the morning I come back to it, breakfast in hand, and they are recapping the previous night’s gymnastics. I refuse to dwell on the wasted hours. (Or my aching limbs, swollen throat, the pain in my head, the thermometer reading 101. I do not, you may recall, ever get sick.)

I don’t know how I get so sucked in, sitting up late every night watching people swim laps, spin on balance beams, nail that next vault. I find myself entranced. It is exhausting; part of me wishes it could go on and on, but mostly I will be glad when it’s over and I can get to bed at my usual time again.

What I do not care for: men’s wrestling. It is so slow, two big sweaty men in spandex clasping hands, leaning into each other. They look like a couple near the end of a dance marathon, searching for a more comfortable position, trying to keep on, feet slowly shuffling, a head nestling onto a shoulder, cheeks pressing, a far-off exhausted look. I just don’t get it.