For four years I've had to keep a secret. It was one of them deep-dark kinds. It was the kind that you stuff so far down in the pit of your stomach, because to come clean would open you up to the sort of ridicule you might never recover from.
I am in love with Michael Phelps. Oh sure, it's the cool thing to do this year. I'm just one of a zillion women of all ages who swoon at the sight of Michael Phelps - Olympic god.
But back in a little town by the name of Athens a scant 4 years ago - it was not nearly as cool unless you were a woman who was looking forward to things like getting her braces off and the Junior Prom. 'Cause 4 years ago when my love affair began - Mikey was still a teenager. A friggin' TEENAGER! What does that make me? Some sort of Roman Polanski/Mary Kay Latourneau hybrid?
So I stuffed the feelings deep down, trying to forget. "Michael-who?" I said.
So here I sit - after a long day of Goals and Objectives update meetings at the Cube Farm, pretty sure that I've put my little obsession in its place.
And then I see an ad for Speedo.
Damn Speedo. Damn Michael Phelps. Damn stupid secret love affairs that aren't secret anymore.
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