Wednesday, 19 February 2014


When our son Christopher sat his PhD Oral Exam, I experienced a restless, sleepless night before and then paced for the day of, stomach violently churning, unable to eat until Chris contacted us from London.  Upon hearing his outstanding results, I sobbed like a baby. Two years ago, waiting for Matthew to round the bend and come into view at the Mont Tremblant Iron Man finish, I felt physically ill and faint, so faint that I grasped the crowd barrier as if my life depended upon it.  As Matt successfully crossed the finish line and the PA system announced,  Matt Lockett, you are an Iron Man, my throat constricted and my eyes filled with tears. I cover my face with a pillow watching tense or scary movie scenes at home or when in a theatre, bow my head, eyes closed. I cry with relief at happy endings. I should own shares in Kleenex.

During the Men's hockey final between Canada and the U.S. at the Vancouver 2010 Olympics, I managed to find a riveting ( not ), essential ( not ) task in our kitchen, all the while humming very loudly so as not to hear the sportscast airing in the family room.  Today, during the tense Canada/Latvia Hockey Game, in which for moments it appeared that we may not advance to the Gold medal final, I adjourned to another room and asked Jim to turn down the TV.  Tears flow as I watch our successful athletes mount the podium. I have been known to sob during the playing of our National Anthem. I am a mess! Perhaps I should apply as the national poster lady for Kleenex.

Developed and fine-tuned over the years, my recipe for watching the Winter Olympic Games when Team Canada is involved has become:
1 pillow +
2 ear plugs
1 Major Diversion or room out of audio range.
1 Giant Box of Kleenex +
1 Internet Olympic Summary +
Event Re-runs
and I am a happy camper.  No racing heart beat, no rising blood pressure.  Hard to believe, but I love these games, I just can't watch them on the first run through.

Anxious? Yup!  Stressed? Yup!  There is something very wrong with me.  The final diagnosis, I am loathe to admit, is that I am a chicken or the cowardly lion or yellow-bellied or all three.  You choose!

Please excuse me, but I am now off to watch Olympic re-runs.  I thank the powers that be that these games only held once every four years.

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