A Love Letter to Evan Lysacek and the Winter Olympics

Hello, pretty boy.


We've been here before, you and I. During the last winter games, I had to work very hard to keep myself from flopping to the floor in an epileptic fit every time you showed up on the television. It's just that you have really nice hair. And dimples. And legs. And hands.

I felt you were robbed at the last Olympics, but I felt pretty certain that things would be okay in another four years, when you were older and wiser and--I hoped--hotter. My hoping was not in vain. You are hotter. Ridiculously so. Bonus: You're now an appropriate age for me, and I feel less skeevy about having a crush on you.

Last night as I watched you kick some serious ass, your legs looking a million miles long, I couldn't help myself from thinking, I'd pay some serious money to see his abs. But it's not my fault. Between skaters, they kept cutting to footage of you working out and doing crunches. And I turned to the cat and said, "Abbey, I might die if I don't get to make out with this kid."

And thank God for all of that, because I've been pretty muddy in the head lately, and if it weren't for this glorious two-week stretch of Olympics (which, I've got to say, is featuring the most attractive bunch of Olympians ever... if you discount the creepy mustachioed Polish skiers) I don't exactly know how I'd be handling things. I'm awfully sulky. But when I get home from school each day I know I have hockey games DVRed and I can watch those with dinner, and when I get done with the hockey games, it's already time to turn on the nightly coverage of whatever's going on. Luge. Speed skating. Slalom. Snowboarding. Figure skating. All of those things take up space in my head, and that's exactly what I need right now: Less available space for thinking.

And I'll even get into the sports I could care less about. Last Sunday, after I got back from a girls' night out in Boothbay, where we drank at a bar called--I swear on everything holy--McSeagulls (oh, Maine!)--I crashed onto the couch, rolled up in an afghan with the cat, and we watched the entire biathlon. I cannot accurately express how little I care about the biathlon, but last Sunday it was the best thing in the world to just stare at a television screen for sixty minutes and watch tall men skate in circles and shoot things.

But you know what's even better than that? Figure skating. Specifically, men's figure skating. Specifically, you. You look like you're seven feet tall on the ice, and that's enough to undo me, enough to turn me into a shrieking mess.

And I wasn't the only one. One of my girl neighbors had some friends over last night, and you should've heard the explosion of screaming that was going on over there, and this screaming corresponded with every time you appeared on the screen, so I think it's safe to assume you were undoing lots of women last night. You were turning us into sixteen year-old versions of ourselves, turning us into teenagers who want to tattoo your name onto our palms with red pen.

Be my belated Valentine, Evan. Come over and I'll make you a celebratory meatloaf. One fit for an Olympic champion.