Track Mangoes

The Olympics are in My Uterus: reflections on women’s gymnastics, Kerri Walsh, Misty May, Amy Winehouse, and a word on Michael Phelps’ Affair with a Mollusk


“If it’s not bleeding you shouldn’t put a BandAid on it,” my sister said, laying down on the sofa. I rubbed the finger I had sliced earlier that day at the café chopping almonds. The gash ran across my pointer, from on side of the knuckle to the other. It looked like a smile.

She sat up and rubbed the flesh blow her navel. Groaning and using the coffee table to hoist herself up she walked into the kitchen where she prepared herself a hot pack. When she returned, she collapsed on the sofa and laid the pack across her belly.

“Visiting the ruby city?” I asked

She noded.

***

When the female body undergoes muscular trauma, caused by exertion, the body begins to use what nutrients it can. Fat stores shrivel, including fat around the breasts and thighs. Muscle falls off the bone, including the pelvic floor, which allows a woman to expel a fetus from the body without internal tearing. The digestive system eats away at the walls of the uterine cavity, making women unable to menstruate. If the female body exercise in excess it sends a message to the brain, “Hey. We can’t deliver no babies.”

I think it’s safe to say the female gymnasts of the US and China won’t be cycling this month. (What would Lance Armstrong say?) Unable to bear children, breastless, and practically uterus-less, it’s hard to call these little gymnasts “women,” even though most of them are 16, 17, 18. But, oh oh oh, the gold is so close.

It’s a girl thing.

So, I digress for a moment. I think it’s safe to say the Olympics have been drained of its playfulness. Government, commercially subsidized athletes and steroids have obscured what it means to become an Olympic hero. Yet we don’t really bat a lash and still expect everyone to break world records. After all, personal life isn’t what the Olympics is about, right? It shouldn’t matter if their heads fall off after the uneven bars, so long as they win the gold. The kind of cold, single mindedness, of athletes like Phelps and Yang Wei are simply symptomatic of the larger Olympic downfall (ala Frankfurt School). So, it’s really not their fault. Really.

I can get over the death of my own romanticized, man against all odds, attitude towards the Olympic games. But I still can’t help feeling…well, creeped out. I don’t know how anyone can watch the broadcast from Tiananmen square and not feel uneasy. There are some things that creep you out for good reason: (When a professor comes up to another professor and says “How close can I get with a student before it becomes sexual harassment,” it feels a little creepy). Not only is it unclear who “ought” to win the gold medal, but it’s unclear who ought to ought to want this persona win the gold over that person. It’s the triumph of the “little guy” that’s inspiring. But it’s not clear who the “little guy” is anymore. Privilege has skewed it. I can watch Alicia Sacramone do well on the floor exercise, but when we know she’s lived a relatively comfortable life in Massachusetts’s pomp, attending Brown University on a scholarship she, financially, doesn’t deserve, I can’t help but wonder what dishwasher in New York could have done a better job.

The same thing is happening in the art world. We could watch Ella Fitzgerald sing and forget the fact she was a whore, but, for some reason, we can’t do the same for Amy Winehouse.

***

“You’re feet smell awful,” I told my sister, who has since abandoned her hot pack and moved on to belly massage.

She reached down and rubbed her fingers on the soles of her feet. She sniffed her fingers.

“Yummy.”

“I think my finger is infected,” I told her.

“Good. I hope it falls off. That way you won’t be able to blame anyone for anything anymore.”

***

Michael Phelps is a cocky sea cucumber. When asked “What does winning all these medals mean to you?” he replied “I’m almost at loss of words [sic]…to win the most gold medals is unbelievable…I don’t know what to say…I feel…incredible.” He had more to say about his goggles falling off in the 200 fly.

Phelps is at his best when he’s been beaten. In 2004, watching him grit his teeth at Thorpe and Van Den Hoogenband was enthralling. Phelps openly admits that, sometimes, his practice is fueled by anger and desire for revenge. In response to Thrope’s schoolyard taunts, made before the 2008 games in the Australian tabloids, Phelps said “I welcome comments. They fuel me.” And, he said it with an eerie calmness. It felt like a Star Wars Movie, with Coach Bowman as the Sith Lord and Phelps as Darth Vadar. (I feel your anger. It gives you power. Makes you strongah!)

I don’t believe in Evil, but I do believe in blinding hatred. When Phelps came on the scene in Sydney he was fresh. Now he’s a rolled up ball of athletic magma. He’s like a protein shake that makes you poop uncontrollably: you kind of like it but it’s also sort of…unpleasant.

Now, Thrope and Hoogenband are running away with their tails between their legs and Phelps crashes through the Olympic villa like a bovine Goliath. What. A. Snooze.

***

My sister listened to her voicemail on speakerphone.

“Hey Kashi it’s Sonya. I’m just sittin here watching TV and eating a lobster. I used a lot of butter. It tastes SUPER DUPER delicious. Call me!”

I wondered if “Lobster” was a euphemism.

“Dilly?” I muttered.

“Yeah,” my sister replied. “She’s a fat lesbian.”

Thank god, I can sleep now.

***

A reader brought up an interesting point. “Jens. If you hate Phelps sooo much because he wins all the time, how come you don’t feel the same way about the volleyball giants Kerri Walsh and Misty May?” Put quite plainly, Walsh and May are women. Phelps is a boy. It’s second wave feminism 101 as per bell hooks and Gloria Steinem. You go girls!
Walsh and May are also a unit that move with artistry rather than force. By themselves they are good, but together they make a harmonious pair. Watching them play ball is on par with watching the great Tai Chi masters move through space with grace and ease. Their sets and spikes are meditative.

So, in short, it’s a girl thing.

***

Another message.

“Hey Kashi, It’s Sonya. I’m just sitting here watching TV and eating some chicken. HAHA. Still waiting for your call girl. Toodles.”

It’s hard for me to enjoy anyone who uses the word “toodles.”

***

I’ll leave you with another comment from a reader. He writes: “Jens, I know you and would be unsurprised to learn your contrarian dismissal of Phelps had [sic] something to do with you wanting badly to suck his cock.”

Reader, where would we be without our sexual frustration?