Folks, tomorrow is the day.
The day I have been waiting for since I was a fetus.
It is the day I am going to go to the Olympic Games.
I might go crazy.
Let's trace the history of this life goal. So, the stars aligned and in 1984, I was born. It's no coincidence that 1984 was an Olympic year, and that the Games were held in Los Angelos. I was the first child of Lulu Jobe, a seasoned Olympic fan. The Olympics and I were meant to be connected.
Fast forward to 1994. These are the first Olympic Games that I remember. It was the Winter Olympics and I remember coming home from ballet and racing to the TV to watch figure skating with my mom. It was the year with the Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan catastrophe.
Oksana Baiul won the gold and Nancy Kerrigan won the silver. My conscious love for the Olympics was growing.
By 1996, I was a fanatic. I was 11 that summer. My grandmother made me an American flag sundress. I would have worn it every day of the 17 days of the Games, but my mom insisted on washing it occasionally. I carried around a small American flag and forced my friends to watch the competition with me.
I saved my babysitting money and bought a Sports Illustrated kids guide to the Olympics for that year. I knew when every event was airing and scheduled my time around the most important events.
I cried when Michael Johnson broke the world record and when Kerri Strug vaulted on her hurt ankle. Good times, good times.
And my love and some might say, obsession, has grown over the years, and when I wrote out my 101 life goals my senior year of college, attending the Olympics was in there.
And tomorrow, I get to check it off the list.
I hope Vancouver is ready for me.