Frippery

Having taken care of some responsibilities this weekend (Mr. P's new tenants, hospital visits visits visits, work catch-up ah hah! database finally fixed!), and having completely fucked off on others (laundry, dishes, replying to LJ comments, gym), I am now flumped out and watching the Olympics. If I was going to get into RPS'ing any of the competitors (not that I *would*, oh heavens no), I'd go for the high-jump guys, Hemingway and Nieto, blond and black, lovely men, doing their manly chest-banging high-five after clearing the latest height. High jump is a wonderfully goofy event, with the backward flomp-and-kick, but track&field bodies are my preferred type, all long lean greyhound ectomorphic muscle. (And that Hemingway guy? Seriously hot.)

Most Terrifying Olympic Event: no question, the high platform diving. I can't imagine even being up on that high high platform, let alone--dude--going up to the edge, turning around, doing a handstand, and then toppling off into the watery abyss. When I was forced into swimming lessons, so many years ago, I absolutely refused to learn to dive, even from the edge of the pool. Because obviously, the only rational way to go into the water is feet-first; diving is such a chancy reckless suicidal extravagant leap of trust. (And I am still scarred, perhaps, by memories of Greg Louganis bashing his skull against the edge of the platform, or board, or whatever it was, all those years ago. Yeeeeoouchhh.)

I should, perhaps, go get some sleep, since laundry and dishes are no way going to get done tonight, and I should be at work tomorrow by seven or so.