If I currently had a job, odds are it would be in jeopardy today, thanks to that infernal, addicting little google soccer goalie.
In addition to time-sucking a good half hour of my Friday, the google goalie also officially disabused me of any thoughts I might have of any sort of (rather late-blooming) athletic excellence. I can't get into what yon successful performers call "the zone." I tell myself, just watch the feet of the little google guy kicking the ball. Just watch the ball. Watch the feet. Watch the ball. The feet. The ball.
Hmmm. He hasn't kicked it in the air in a while. Wonder when he's going to kick it in the air? Air air air jump! little goalie ... oh wait, that was on the ground again. My bad. Feet. Ball. Feet. Ball. My score must be up to 30 by now. Don't check the score. Feet. Ball. Feet. Damn you, disobedient right eye! I said not to glance at - oh shit.
In short, I seem to be unable to turn my thoughts off long enough to achieve any sort of focus and/or sustained success. I could ruminate further on this revelation, but that would probably lead to some discomfiting insight that might require corrective action or emotional growth, and I just don't feel up to either right now.
I should know better than to engage with anything soccer-related anyway. In my career, if I have had to cover a soccer match - high school, college or semi-pro - something bad was going to happen. Stadium-rattling thunderstorms, penalty kicks on deadline, and not one but two ambulance delays were par for the pitch. Pitch. Can't just call it a field. Oh, no. That's not British enough. It's a pitch and it's nil-nil, not zero-zero, and Referee!! I'm dying! What, no foul? I feel better.
In the disjointed spirit of said thoughts, did anyone else catch the Australian synchronized swimming team flipping ass-over-teakettle to "Back in Black" this morning? I'm sure Angus Young appreciated the, uh, exposure. I saw Mr. Young's own pasty white exposure once at an AC/DC concert. It's a good thing he's in a kick-ass rock-and-roll band. Otherwise 5,000 women would have simultaneously phoned the police.
Further proving the point that my chance at Olympic glory is long past, I just returned from a run (gasp) walk. You ever notice how you could have run for a good five minutes straight, without looking like you needed help or anything, and the minute you stop and suck in air, the rock-abbed teenage gazelle glides past you, with nary a drop of sweat on his blond brow, or the wasp-waisted woman in her 50s breezes by, with her coral lipstick still on? I hate those people.