Everyone is talking about how Michael Phelps' God-given body, coupled with his need to harness his hyperactive energy as a kid, basically determined his fate of becoming the best and fastest swimmer in the whole dang world. How can he keep winning? How is this so easy for him? Well, first of all, Phelps is effectively tireless. Second of all, he has a super-long torso that sits atop his short-ish, sturdy legs. In addition, he has flipper-like, size 14 feet, boasts an arm-span of 6' 2", and happens to be in possession of a heart that pumps twice as much blood, twice as fast as the average man. According to Bob Costas and Company, that's basically how Phelps does it.
Still, along with genetics, Phelps, the freak of nature that he is, goes the extra length and sticks to an intense training regimen. The guy trains so hard and so thoroughly, he only gets out of the pool to eat and sleep. What does he eat, you ask? Well, God bless America, there is nothing healthful about his diet. The guy eats whatever the hell he wants and as much of it as he wants because he burns every last morsel of it in the pool. I love the idea that he is fueled by pancakes and hot dogs. This reaffirms my belief that a sedentary life, not food, is the mortal enemy. People who only eat whole grains, greens, and steamed fish seem desperately sad to me. They are the same people who, upon receiving their own gold medals, always look as though they would have preferred to have been given chocolate medallions wrapped in gold foil, or burgers wrapped in crinkly yellow paper. Thank you for the gold medal. Now, point me toward the golden arches.
Anyway, all this talk about the body that Phelps inhabits has gotten me thinking about my own seemingly pathetic vessel. What was I built for? Do I have the body of an Olympian, or a simian? A bold build, or a blogger's bod? Baby-maker, or babysitter? I wonder, for what purpose did God make my particular frame? What can we tell by looking at ourselves and at one another, on the surface? Are we ever correct to assume anything about anyone based on what we see?
My nose might tell you that I am a singer, which I am. My hands might tell you that I am not a guitarist, which I am not. My hair might tell you that I am Italian, which I am. However, my skin tone might tell you that I am Scandinavian, which I am not. And my size ten body? Well, that might tell you that I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure, and cannot run fast. The thing is, I don't, I don't, and, somehow, I can.
That last point, specifically, has been perplexing those around me since I was a big little girl trying to fake her own death to get out of gym class. I was egregiously bad at anything that required endurance and hand-eye coordination, yes, but speed was a different matter. My running of the 50-Yard-Dash, for example, never failed to stun every insensitive gym teacher I have ever had. This, of course, was always followed by a comment along the lines of, "You know, Bazzarelli, you've got potential. If you ever got with the program and dropped that extra weight you insist on carrying around with you, you might be able to really do this." One of my gym teachers even made it a point to tell my guidance counselor that I could be a sprinter if I, "laid off Pop's pizza." Which reminds me, what an asshole.
Anyway, these backhanded compliments never really did anything to persuade me to take up running and put down my fork because, honestly, I never liked to run and always felt self-conscious when I was forced to. That being said, what this attention being paid to my running did do was this: it made me aware of something else God had given me, but for a non-Olympic reason, I assure you. To this day, I'll only race against someone when that someone needs to be taught a lesson on the foolishness of making assumptions. In other words, my running might tell you that I am a teacher, which I am.
Now, over these past couple of days I've heard many a sports commentator talk about how Michael "Superman" Phelps was made for what he's doing. This, I believe, given all those gold medals and world records of his, is hard to deny. Still, that's not to say he wasn't made to do other things as well. Not everything shows at a glance, after all. Not even if you live your life in a Speedo.
Still, along with genetics, Phelps, the freak of nature that he is, goes the extra length and sticks to an intense training regimen. The guy trains so hard and so thoroughly, he only gets out of the pool to eat and sleep. What does he eat, you ask? Well, God bless America, there is nothing healthful about his diet. The guy eats whatever the hell he wants and as much of it as he wants because he burns every last morsel of it in the pool. I love the idea that he is fueled by pancakes and hot dogs. This reaffirms my belief that a sedentary life, not food, is the mortal enemy. People who only eat whole grains, greens, and steamed fish seem desperately sad to me. They are the same people who, upon receiving their own gold medals, always look as though they would have preferred to have been given chocolate medallions wrapped in gold foil, or burgers wrapped in crinkly yellow paper. Thank you for the gold medal. Now, point me toward the golden arches.
Anyway, all this talk about the body that Phelps inhabits has gotten me thinking about my own seemingly pathetic vessel. What was I built for? Do I have the body of an Olympian, or a simian? A bold build, or a blogger's bod? Baby-maker, or babysitter? I wonder, for what purpose did God make my particular frame? What can we tell by looking at ourselves and at one another, on the surface? Are we ever correct to assume anything about anyone based on what we see?
My nose might tell you that I am a singer, which I am. My hands might tell you that I am not a guitarist, which I am not. My hair might tell you that I am Italian, which I am. However, my skin tone might tell you that I am Scandinavian, which I am not. And my size ten body? Well, that might tell you that I have high cholesterol and high blood pressure, and cannot run fast. The thing is, I don't, I don't, and, somehow, I can.
That last point, specifically, has been perplexing those around me since I was a big little girl trying to fake her own death to get out of gym class. I was egregiously bad at anything that required endurance and hand-eye coordination, yes, but speed was a different matter. My running of the 50-Yard-Dash, for example, never failed to stun every insensitive gym teacher I have ever had. This, of course, was always followed by a comment along the lines of, "You know, Bazzarelli, you've got potential. If you ever got with the program and dropped that extra weight you insist on carrying around with you, you might be able to really do this." One of my gym teachers even made it a point to tell my guidance counselor that I could be a sprinter if I, "laid off Pop's pizza." Which reminds me, what an asshole.
Anyway, these backhanded compliments never really did anything to persuade me to take up running and put down my fork because, honestly, I never liked to run and always felt self-conscious when I was forced to. That being said, what this attention being paid to my running did do was this: it made me aware of something else God had given me, but for a non-Olympic reason, I assure you. To this day, I'll only race against someone when that someone needs to be taught a lesson on the foolishness of making assumptions. In other words, my running might tell you that I am a teacher, which I am.
Now, over these past couple of days I've heard many a sports commentator talk about how Michael "Superman" Phelps was made for what he's doing. This, I believe, given all those gold medals and world records of his, is hard to deny. Still, that's not to say he wasn't made to do other things as well. Not everything shows at a glance, after all. Not even if you live your life in a Speedo.
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