TU-VA-LU! TU-VA-LU!

Every Olympic Opening Ceremony, I have the same embarassing moment — some country that I’ve never heard of in my life walks across my screen. This year I thought I was in the clear, until Bob Costas crashed my party: “And making its maiden Olympic appearance, Tuvalu!”

Yes, Tuvalu. Ever hear of it? If not, please let me know in the comment thread. I’ll feel better.

I am somewhat comforted by the fact the even Google Maps hasn’t heard of this place. If you do a search for it, here’s what you get:

That’s right, not even a little green dot.  But they had a big flag and three athletes, all of them wearing matching outfits.  (I always feel doubly embarassed for the teams that show up to the opening ceremonies without matching outfits.  Their athletes always have this slightly dejected look about them, like the little girls who showed up to the first day of middle school this year wearing last year’s jeans.  I mean, really.  Your country could afford transportation to Beijing, but couldn’t invest in a couple of t-shirts?  But the Opening ceremonies are only the beginning.  Despite the abundance of pride, there’s more than enough embarassment at the Olympics.  Don’t even get me started on the makeup and glitter hairspray combos employed by the gymnasts of certain former Soviet states.  As usual, I digress…) 

I went to bed that night with visions of Tuvalu-style Polynesian dancers in my head.  Who do they dance for?  Not a clue.  Because apparently almost no one lives in this place.  They don’t have any natural resources either, and their main source of income is listed as “foreign aid.”  Yet, they have an Olympic team.  And then it hit me:  “If I moved somewhere like this, could I be on their Olypmic team?” 

Well, I’m (ahem) no stranger to national competition.  Ten years ago, I was representing my nation in another large, nationally televised contest. It was highly competitive. Great honor was at stake. Several competitors had trained all their lives and made great sacrifices. Tears came to our eyes as we stood on tiered bleachers and heard patriotic anthems fill the arena.

Yes, I am talking about the Miss America Pageant.

Ten years later, I’ve earned college and law degrees, married, had a son, and written a book. But around the dinner table, in every new crowd I meet, people want to talk about one thing: “You were in Miss America?? WOW.”  I didn’t win, of course, but I feel like I get the same reaction as an Olympian (who also didn’t win or place, but hey, she was there) might get.  It’s one of those mythic events that most people are aware of only through primetime television.  How those girls get there, where they come from, is a mystery.  Most Kentuckians, for example, who find themselves rooting for Miss Kentucky have never seen the woman before.  They have nothing in common with her, and they may well be better looking or more talented than she is.  But they’ll never make it to the Miss America pageant because, well, how does anyone do that?  Like Olympic status, it’s such an enigmatic goal that most people don’t even think about attempting it.  The people who reach that medal/rhinestone zone must have been groomed for it from birth on some secret  government installation, where they whiten your teeth with plutonium and have you crawling marathons on treadmills by the age of six months. 

But I wasn’t like that, and I ended up at Miss America anyway.  Could there be a secret OIympic entry point for normal people, too?  Maybe, if I just moved to Tuvalu…

I did a little digging, and it turns out, I was right.  Forbes has a great article on the subject called Get Into the Olympics–The Easy Way.  Read it here:  http://www.forbes.com/2008/07/08/qualify-olympics-tips-forbeslife-olympics08-cx_ph_0708getintotheolympics.html.         

Now, I don’t know about y’all, but that article is about the most inspiring thing I’ve seen since all those Chinese kids danced around in the shape of a dove the other night. It’s given me a whole new goal for my 2008 Olympics viewing experience. I’ll watch Michael Phelps, of course. But I’ll really be searching the Target Shooting competiting for the fattest, oldest guy there.

Cause I’m an American, and that’s MY hero.

 

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