OK, so maybe in a year or so the “where were you when Michael Phelps won gold medal #8” question won’t be top-of-mind with Americans. But even when his accomplishments fade, I won’t forget mine.
My husband won’t let me.
You see, I flew up to Calgary for the weekend to surprise him at a Toastmaster convention – a little “gotcha” I cooked up back in March. When I obviously wasn’t thinking Olympics or I never would have spent the frequent flier points. So as luck would have it, I was wearing a blue sparkly cocktail dress, new shiny pumps and sitting at a banquet table the night of the final medley. I’d seen two times posted: 10:58 EST, and 10:40 EST – right smack in the middle of dinner when you’re in MST. Not to mention NBC announced they’d moved up the start of the race by 30 minutes, so it could have been 10:10, better known as AT (appetizer time).
I didn’t take any chances. At the top of the hour, I excused myself and went downstairs to the hotel bar, grabbed a seat, ordered a Pepsi and some beer nuts and settled in. Of course, the correct time was the last one. I spent an hour chatting with a couple from Calgary, the bartender, and eventually another Toastmaster spouse who told his wife he had to use the restroom. At least I didn’t have to lie – my hubby just raised his eyebrows the second I stood up and started walking. He knew darn well he’d just been abandoned for a better offer.
When the race was in the history books, my shoes were off, I was jumping up and down in a party dress and high-fiving folks at the other tables. At one point the Canadian gentleman asked why he was rooting for the USA.
I knew why I was: This is my country, and Michael Phelps isn’t a Toastmaster.
I apparently missed a bad steak and half of a boring program. Great timing.