update — or somepin’ like dat

All right. I’m ranting and typing furiously here.

So they skate and I guess they do all right — oh, and skating to “Prince of Egypt” about, you know, slavery and deliverance and other minor stuff like that, you whiny little piss-ants!

But they do all right, as I said; you know, there’s no fall, no butt zamboni, but I have to say that watching them HAVE to touch each other during the skate is weird. They are still SO mad at each other, it’s like both their bodies are screaming, “AHHHHH!! IT BURNS!! IT BUURRRRRNS!!!”

So they finish and …. the Italian crowd goes crazy and then — and ONLY then — she starts sobbing and clutching at him and stroking his hair. The ice melts, so to speak.

AND IT MAKES ME REALLY MAD, SOMEHOW.

I guess it’s just the notion that any forgiveness or reconciliation here was entirely dependent on how well they skated. If they’d fallen again — what? What would have happened? Would they never speak to each other again? Put out a hit on each other? WHAT?? After all that time together, there’s no grace?? I know it’s the Olympics and all, but it’s not real life, people. Your life will go on after the Olympics are done. Or at least, it SHOULD.

Can you manage to weigh your relationships as more important than one life event??

I say this:

If you guys win, Dick Button STILL gets to SPANK you.

But I do, TOO.

7 Replies to “update — or somepin’ like dat”

  1. “Butt zamboni?” There’s a phrase!

    “All glory is fleeting,” and so is most defeat. Real relationships can survive after both, if there is grace in the mix. You are so smart to know that at such a (relative to me, anyway) young age.

  2. I kept on hoping that he would just leave her there, out on the ice, right in the middle of the dance.

    They spin, they separate, she turns…and he’s gone. Out one of the side entrances. She’s left to diva herself to death in front of millions.

    She would forever define herself by this moment, and never move on, 30 years and 47 facelifts later, still strolling through local ice rinks to be wispered about in awe.

    He would leave skating forever, ending up a mid-level manager for some large Italian corporation. But every now and then, deep in the winter, he would pass by the local rink and slow down just a bit.

    …Not that they caused an emotional reaction in me or anything…

  3. Her interview would be rendered in subtitles, a cockatoo croaking in the background, her little chihuahua alternately scrounging for treats while giving her the impatient, “please love me” face, decked in a pink doggie coat and pink doggie ribbon.

    Italiana would dab tears and tap her cigarette while describing the exact moment — the shattering, inexplicable moment — when Italia left the ice. And what the treatment center was like. And how painful it is since she became unable to blink.

    Cut to Italia, sitting behind his desk. He speaks 10 flat words (which are decidedly UN-subtitle-able) and stops, then looks blankly at the interviewer.

    Cut to an empty, windblown, frozen rink. The rink where they first met; the rink where they trained… When they were poor and in love… So long ago.

    And the only sound is the whistling of the wind. And what might have been.

  4. RED!! I am SO sorry you missed it! The theatricality of their hissiness was just priceless!!

    Cullen — Oh, well, sometimes it’s just SO hard to know what to write about next ….

  5. Eldest d. begs to point out that they are ITALIAN, after all – and drama is to be expected.
    They both were “p33ing their pants laughing” while watching, as she so delicately puts it.

    “Butt zamboni” why we love Tracey…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *