The double gold standard

So, another Olympics has come and gone faster than a four-man bobsled on greased lightning. Shaun White has retreated to invent the newest mind-blowing moves at his top-secret training grounds at Silverton Mountain (oops, I mean “at an undisclosed location somewhere high in the Rocky Mountains”), and Johnny Weir has left in search of more politically correct costume adornments. Bob Costas is off for an extended visit with his plastic surgeon (also known as a “little R & R” in the biz), and all us newly inducted curling fanatics have already begun to forget the object of the game.

All that and the tears are barely dry from Korea’s Yu-Na Kim’s gold medal performance.

But there is one thing that has troubled me since my cathode tube went cold a few weeks back. And it has nothing to do with the totally bizarre opening – and even more bizarre closing – ceremonies. (Those were giant doobies, I don’t care what anyone says.)

To be fair, my unease does not have to do so much with the Olympics so much as with the coverage of the athletes. Or in this case, lack thereof.

Yes, I’m talking about the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. OK, roll your eyes if you must. Or cover them if you happen to hold some things, such as worldclass Olympic athletes, in high regard. (And if you happen to consider curlers in the same category, do not, by any means, pick up the most recent issue of Playboy.)

I know, this is so yesterday’s news. But when you rely on hand-me-down magazines from the neighbors, as we do in my household, the breaking headlines tend to be a little stale. (Speaking of which, did you hear that Michael Jackson died?)

Anyway, back to female Olympic athletes in bikinis (note, I did not refer to them as “swimsuits,” because lord help anyone, Olympian or not, who actually tries to swim in one of these things. And although there may have been a hot tub in the hotel where the pictures were shot, from the looks of the snow-capped mountains in the background, I’d say the nearest body of open water was an extremely chilly hundred miles away. Oh wait, maybe that was the point.)

And, just for the record, SI is not the only guilty party. Outside magazine also featured a come-hither photo of Julie Mancuso baring more breast than a bucket of KFC.

These are talented, powerful, graceful athletes representing the United States of America. But I fail to see what Julie Mancuso’s cleavage (which is putting it mildly) or Lindsey Vonn’s jutting hip bones have to do with athletic achievement. And if in fact, there happens to be a connection between athletics and sex (please spare the perverted remarks), then can someone please tell me why I’m not looking at Bode Miller in a g-string or Shaun White wearing nothing but a strategically placed bandana?

And for the record, I would like to reiterate that this has nothing to do me being jealous (which I fully admit to.) But it does have everything to do with me being a female (granted, athlete is a bit of a stretch) and a mother of an aspiring ski racer. And maybe a little bit to do with my advancing age into mid-life, and the fact that the most scandalous thing in my day was Farrah Fawcett’s tank top. Plus, the whole is just so unbecoming a sensible girl from Minnesota - she’ll catch the death of a cold.

But my main gripe is over why we need to make our racers, so … racy? If you ask me, the one-piece lycra suits are imagination-inducing enough. And unless one is an aspiring porn star, there really isn’t a reason to bare all your assets to the world. Sure, Lindsey Vonn has a rockin’ bod (as does Mancuso, albeit with some suspicions.) But I truly believe one can be the fastest woman on skis without also being the fastest woman off – and still be beautiful.

Like I said, banish me to Prude City. It’s just that when I saw those photos, I felt nothing but pity and sadness (and maybe a brief pang of nausea.) I guess I had hoped that by 2010, a woman’s gold medal would be enough to get her by. But perhaps, I’ll have to carry that torch for another four years.

– Missy Votel