At this point in August, the Olympics have become about as stale as Ryan Lochte’s brain cells. But watching the Olympics religiously this summer — I mean, I even gave archery a shot — genuinely altered the way I view young adulthood and my place in it.
For one, how can you watch a gaggle of Mary Poppins take down Voldemort with spoonfuls of sugar and umbrellas and not think, “Wow, I really need to reassess my life. Also, that was awesome.” How can you watch Victoria Beckham look as disenchanted as she did during every 1990s Spice Girls performance and not think, “The future is an abyss, even more ferocious than Scary Spice.” Maybe these mental connections are more of a stretch than gymnastic floor routines, but I think this idea has gold-medal potential.
As a 21-year-old, my main Olympics epiphany came when I realized that a majority of these superheroes are nearly half my age but hold double my accomplishments. After watching the U.S. women’s soccer team win gold, I became obsessed with the lure of athletic success. Alex Morgan is only two years older than me; the closest I’m getting to the Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition is however close it happens to be as I check out at Kroger buying a six-pack and a pint of ice cream.
Suddenly, I had this idea: I am athletic, so I am going to become a professional soccer player. Then, just as suddenly as I had made this goal, I squashed it. In my youth soccer league, the only things I scored were those delicious orange slices during half time. My hand-eye coordination exists, but I think I missed the professional athlete boat by about 10 years and a lot more muscle.
More than anything, I felt a distinct lack of accomplishment as I watched more and more medal ceremonies. Gabby Douglas probably cannot drive a car, but why would she need one when she can just do acrobatics across town? Watching these young athletes made me feel as if I’d missed the opportunity to really thrive. Twenty-one is young, sure, but being the best at something takes years and years of practice and determination. Not every field I could enter requires being at my physical peak — and that has long since passed — but they at least seek people who boast significant accomplishments at a young age.
I am at the end of “a young age,” and it freaks me out. I have to keep reminding myself that the Olympics features the most extraordinary competitors of our generation so it represents an unfair standard of self-measure. But you know what else features competition just as physical and intense? Any chemistry class at this University graded on a curve. We are not so far removed from these Olympic folk; indeed, a few of them are even fellow Hoos.
Maybe this column is a fourth-year personal crisis masked as a journalistic endeavor, but the Olympics also made me think beyond self-deprecation and instead more critically about phases of young adulthood. There is an enormous jump between being 21 and 25. Where will I be watching the Rio games in 2016? Who knows where I will be at 4 p.m. today, let alone four years from now. For every Olympics before this, I knew at least vaguely where I would be and with whom I would be watching the next Games. But even this year a shift started to occur: I watched the Opening Ceremonies in Madrid, Spain to conclude my trip abroad, and I watched the Closing Ceremonies in the comfort of my home with my parents. So where will I be? Maybe, just maybe, I will be in Rio with the Women’s Soccer team … as a spectator or something, of course.
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