(Aside: I can't possibly be the only person who felt super fit after marathon sessions of athlete ogling? I could have sworn that my abs were tightening as I watched hours and hours of swimming and volleyball. I was starting to convince myself that this was really happening -- I even have a name for it, Bystander Fitness ™, which is kind of brilliant, right? -- but now we're on week two and I'm pretty sure the bigger numbers on the scale are less due to muscle mass and more to increased hummus and chip consumption. While sitting on the couch. But it was nice while it lasted. Anyway!)
So I watched so much NBC in the last few days that I've started to dream about the Olympics. To my complete surprise I wasn't dreaming of our boys in the American Swimming team:
(Seriously, what is wrong with me?)
Instead I dreamt of a gymnast. And it wasn't even our hometown girl, Aly Raisman, or her smiling, adorable Fabulous Five teammates.
I probably didn't dream of them because you KNOW I'll be there when our small town (did I mention I live mere steps from her high school? *cough cough*) throws a parade or some other wholesome event to celebrate our very own gold medalist. From right here, in small town MA.
So there's no need to dream, maybe?
Instead, I dreamt of the other Aly -- fierce Russian gymnast Aliya Mustafina and her wide set eyes.
More specifically I dreamt that Aliya and I went out for drinks (I don't remember what -- maybe milkshakes, since she's probably like 15 years old?)* and we had a fabulous time. Hey, this is a dream, so it could happen.
*(Then again she's Russian, so maybe vodka shots?)
In my dream, Aliya was lovely. We chatted, though not about the swimmers (to my dismay) because of course she's too serious for that. "The boys in my life will appear when they do," she has said. Wow. I love her confidence. If I had a teen daughter that is exactly what I would want her to say.
Despite NBC's storyline, this girl isn't a villain, just a young girl that can do amazing things under immense pressure.
I mean, look! She can smile:
She just chooses not to. (And would probably cut me if we were Facebook friends and I dared tag that photo.)
What are you DOING? You are UNFRIENDED IMMEDIATELY!
In my dream, I asked Aliya for her advice.
(You can tell this is a dream because I'm asking a teenager for advice.)
(Also, because we were speaking in English. I'm sure she speaks at least some English, because learning English isn't particularly special or exotic, but I just get the feeling that she's the type to pretend to not speak English just to mess with you. I think you know what I mean.)
First, I wanted to know how to do eye makeup like her. She took a look at my weak attempt at eye makeup and laughed in my face. Apparently, I'm completely hopeless. No surprise there.
I also asked her to teach me how to give bitchface. Because, by God, she is the Queen and I'm in desperate need of that skill.
Trust me, I'm not complaining. Most of the time, my happy demeanor and face serve me well. People tend to like happy people, and when you look nice, people put their guard down. That means that they're usually nice to you even if it is against their nature, and sometimes, it means that people have low expectations of you -- like that you can't possibly be smart or competitive because you're obviously nice and the two things are like oil and water. Of course that's not true, so I sometimes take advantage of that.
What? Listen, I'm nice, but I'm certainly not stupid. I can appreciate the power of good bitchface. It can come in so handy in everyday life; like when you don't want crazy people sitting next to you on the T or someone is boring you with yet another story about their ahmazing toddler or whatever.
I guess I must have won her over with my nice face (score!) because Dream Aliya told me the secret three step process of good bitchface.
(DREAM) ALIYA MUSTAFINA'S SECRETS TO PROPER BITCHFACE. (IN MY DREAMS)
First, you think of hateful things. (I thought of driving on the Mass Pike. Massholes!)
Then, you relax your face completely, while keeping the hateful thoughts in your soul. (Don't worry, it'll still show through your eyes. Like your hips, they don't lie.)
The result? Eyes that cut glass, and not one hint of whether you are happy or angry or indifferent. Except for those eyes. Which will terrify whoever crosses their path.
God, I can't help it. I adore her magnificent bitchface. YOU GO ON GIRL.
(This is so pathetic. You know how Yesterday came to Paul McCartney in a dream? I waste my brain's most creative powers on eye makeup and bitchface. This is why I'm not supremely successful, friends. Don't waste your dreams!)