Raising imaginary Olympians.

What I wore: Shorts, AE Outfitters. Top, Gap. Sandals, Macy's. 

Every four years, I get pumped to watch Olympic gymnastics.

And every four years, I decide I should have had a career as an Olympian. 

I used to be a competitive gymnast.

And when I say "competitive gymnast" I mean I had skills that

would make you yawn in comparison to the stuff you see in the Olympics

(although I'm awfully proud to say I once stuck a back handspring on the balance beam).

Gymnastics was tough. Imagine a gym full of 10-14 year olds in tears as

they hold push ups. Yeah, that tough.

But watching elite gymnastics literally makes me want
to do backflips across my living room 

(which would require removing all the furniture and, also, 

probably a post-backflip trip to the hospital). 

I'd be lying if I didn't admit to getting off the couch to see

if I could still do the splits (I can't) and how long I can hold a handstand (ten seconds).

Sadly, though, I'm pretty sure I'm out of consideration for Olympic gymnastics
now that I've reached the ripe old age of twenty-three

(we're ignoring the fact that I haven't done gymnastics in years
and that I was never ever anywhere near that good). 

So Sunday night, while watching the final night of the women's Olympic trials,

I decided to pass my elite athletic dreams on to my imaginary children.

Here's what's up:

I've got the body type of a gymnast. 

Broad shoulders, slim hips, vertically-challenged. 

And Ryan's not a tall dude (sorry, friend).

Straight out of the womb, our children will have an advantage.
And from there, I'm sticking those babies directly into "Mommy and me"
gymnastics classes and getting them whipped into shape ASAP.
I shall begin researching the top gyms immediately
and saving up money to travel to international meets.
And then I will live vicariously through them as they
flip and tumble toward a gold medal.
Look out 2032-ish Olympics, here we come.