We are half way through the Olympic Closing Ceremonies and I am starting to feel the pangs of post-Olympic depression. For the past two weeks Chup and I would resume nightly Olympic watching positions on the couches in our den. We've eaten all dinners on our laps, our eyes consuming more action than our bellies. Bob Costas tucked me into dreamland more than once. Sadder than most however, will be The Chief whose bedtime was extended to "after the next commercial break."
When I watch the Olympics I do so honoring my ancestors. Not only do I cheer on the USA, but also the Norwegians (my Larsen side) which means I had to rub it in Chup's Swedish blood (his Jensen side) anytime we were victorious. Which also means Norway's 23 medals next to Sweden's 11 is making our marriage rocky. But by tomorrow none of that will matter.
By-the-way, I would have equally supported the Brits (my Clark side) but I didn't watch much of the Skeleton events.
Most of all, I was proud to show my pride in Canada. The country who hosted my soul for a year-and-half as an LDS missionary. Canada was the nation who took me by the hand (mitten) and taught me the ways of tortiere, poutine, tuques, caban a sucres, ketchup chips and beaver tails. It was Canada that gave me my first pair of white ice skates. Canada taught me how to ice skate. It was Canada who picked me up time and time (and time and time and time) again when I inevitably skidded on my knees or buttocks--mostly, it was the buttocks--while skating their canals and lakes. Did I just say buttocks?
America will always have my true patriotism. Norway will have its 23 medals. Sweden will have ABBA. But Canada --Oh Canada!--we will always have Vancouver 2010.
*my thanks goes out to Leanne in Calgary for sending The Chief his official Canadian Olympic hoodie, and me the much-desired maple leaf mittens.
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Guiding you to Provo:
A musing during a traffic jam.
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