I'm going to talk about something that is really embarrassing to me. In fact, I can feel my asshole clenching as I plan out exactly what I am going to say.
I read this book a couple of months ago called The Female Brain. My retention isn't what it used to be, but basically everything we feel is caused by different chemical cocktails produced in the brain. Attraction, anger, love, lust - all of it. If I'm attracted to someone it is simply because that person triggers the correct chemical response in me. I am on a quest for the person who can fire up my dopamine and oxytocin. Mmmmm, brain juice.
This all leads me to the cringe-inducing part of today's program. I, like much of the planet right now, am infatuated with Michael Phelps. It started during the 2004 Olympics in Athens. Who is this gangly fish-boy? I wondered. Of course, I felt a little skeevy lusting after him. After all, I was 25 and he was barely 19. This time around it's less skeevy but as I approach 30, 23 seems younger and younger.
Not that there is anything wrong with lusting after athletes. They are in peak physical condition and frankly, I admire all of them for their dedication and obsessiveness. It takes a certain kind of person to be an Olympian and even if I had stuck with the fencing or soccer or softball, I am fairly certain that I would never be that kind of good.
OK, I sense that you're getting impatient. Where's the embarrassment? What is it that has my asshole shut up like a bank vault? Here you go: My infatuation involves elaborate fantasies where I become Phelps' housekeeper/dog-walker and he falls for me. I have had imaginary (duh) conversations with his coach, mom, sisters and friends. I have pet his dog and cooked his food. And yes, I've had the sex. The other night I had a full-blown fantasy that hinged on Phelps being a virgin and me oh-so-lovingly popping his cherry. Yeah, I'm fucking crazy. Please, no comments on how I need to get laid. We all know that - it's not new information.
I've managed not to be all internet stalkerish about it, but it's been tough. All I want to do when I'm at work is Google search and become an expert on all things Phelps, even though I'm already embarrassed by the knowledge I do have. Why can't I use this obsessive focus for something more useful? You know, like getting my MA? Or finding a better job? Or even keeping my apartment clean(er). Nope, I'm all Phelps, all the time.
Apparently this person I have never met, and probably never will, triggers all sorts of crazy brain chemicals. Sure, I would love to rub myself all over that bod of his, but I can't leave it at that. I have to imagine how it would be watching him compete as an insider. If I were sitting in the stands next to his family, nervously clutching at his mother's hand. IT'S NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!!! Even if he does move back to Baltimore, I'm not about to relocate down there on the off chance that I'd run into him one day and he'd be, "Where have you been all my life?" Considering he's been training for over half his life, I'm imagining that he's a bit socially awkward. Which just makes him all the more appealing/endearing, goddamit. I can't wait until the Olympics are over and all the furor dies down. I don't know how much more chemically-induced shit I can handle.
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