OK, I’m just going to say it: Synchronized diving, while an impressive display, is not a sport. It’s a stunt. An awful lot of the competitions we’ll be seeing in the next two weeks aren’t sports. But what the hell, let’s watch ’em.
As a former equestrian, I’m sensitive to this charge. “You ride a horse? Oh wow, I bet that’s really hard — for the horse.” My reply was always that if golf is a sport, then riding is, too. And for the next two weeks, the Obscure Sport/Stunt Color Commentators Union will see full employment, and we’ll get to repeat their lines at work: “As usual, the Chinese set the standard for synchronized diving.” Try it out.
Diving is a sport, I should add. Surely, synchronizing with another diver is an added skill. But honestly, after watching for a while, I think it’s all about another opportunity to show beautiful bodies in bathing suits.
How was your weekend? Mine was fine. Sailing, cooking, shopping — basically the perfect summer trifecta, made even better by the fact all the shopping was for Kate, and I didn’t wave to face a fitting-room mirror. We went to Forever 21, one of the higher circles of hell. All I can do, shopping there, is think of how wretched the lives are of the people who sew this shit. How is it possible to grow the cotton, harvest the cotton, process the cotton, dye and loom the cotton, cut it, sew it, blah blah blah until this row of tank tops hangs on a rack in Troy, Michigan, priced at 2 for $8? But it’s undeniably a good place to buy cheap dresses for a teenager, so here we are, and here I am on an ottoman in the fitting-room area, and a girl across the row steps out in a dress that is the full trifecta of sluttyville — short, tight and low-cut. What’s worse, it’s sort of shirred, too, and the seam cleaves the crack of her ass. She looks at the mirror, and seems to be trying to make up her mind.
Her friend steps out of the adjacent fitting room. “Oh. My. God. That is so awesome. You look so hawt.” I’m thinking, nope, what you need is a nice sheath in a non-stretchy fabric. Something that skims the body, but doesn’t hug it like a drowning swimmer. Raise the neckline two inches — a scoop, not a plunge — and I’ll give you the mid-thigh hemline. Then you’ll look like a pretty lady and not Tatiana Petrovna, Russian prostitute.
She went back into the room, and emerged a few minutes later with a hot pink tight/shirred/short/STRAPLESS number, which was even worse. Her friend agreed THIS was the dress.
I guess she had a date for a sex party or something.
Kate got two dresses that were sorta Betty Draper-ish. Plus some fierce boots from Nordstrom’s anniversary sale, and a new pair of skinny jeans. I think we’re done for a while.
Back to the Olympics.
But first, some bloggage? Sure.
When it gets very hot in the Carolinas, our Coozledad finds little reward in farm work, which is good for us, because he blogs instead.
A very very long read from Outside. I opened the print window — it was broken into so many takes I got tired of clicking through — and lost the original story. But it’s a great story, about a veteran who walked into the Bob Marshall Winderness and hasn’t been seen since.
And while it’s wrong to laugh at children, someone obviously needs to point this girl in a new direction, and maybe this will be the turning point.
The week awaits! Let’s make it a good one.