Well, okay then. So much for my generous impulse to donate my copy of "Where Things Come Back." For me, this book can never come back, because evidently it will never go away. I will chalk my effort up to a noble, but failed experiment. The book and I will have to learn to coexist peacefully, despite our differences.
And speaking of noble but failed: don't you have to love that tragedy-into-triumph story of Jordyn Wieber of the U.S. Women's gymnastic team? Didn't she come through for her teammates like a real champion? I did feel sorry for those tearful Russian girls, though. Especially knowing that they'll be going straight to the gulag upon their return. KIDDING. I feel particularly bad for them because their loss clearly wasn't entirely their own fault. Each of them was cruelly weighed down in competition by at least a pound of State-issued eye makeup, and the effect could well have impacted on their ability to achieve the necessary height on their jumps. But we'll never know, will we?
I never expect to get hooked on the Olympics dramarama, but somehow I always do. As a quintessential nonathlete, I watch it with the fascination of a six-year-old at a magic show. How do they DO that? Or rather, how do they so convincingly make it appear that they're doing it, when I know full well that it's all physically impossible? Of course none of it is real, but I'm always just a little too slow to catch them in the act. So I keep watching.
Can't wait for Saturday, when my family is going to South Hero, Vermont, for a week of hanging out and doing nothing in particular. My hope is that I'll finally get back to w-r-i-t-i-n-g, but I can't say it for fear of jinxing it. But if you want to send good vibes my way, I'll gratefully accept them.