A Letter to Michael Phelps

Dear Michael,

I can call you Michael, right?

I just wanted to say what a thrill it has been to watch you achieve your goal of winning 8 gold medals in the 2008 Beijing Olympics. I was there every step of the way. Well, except for the 400m freestyle relay, because my husband turned the channel for five minutes (literally five minutes) to watch some ridiculous news show and we missed it. However, I was able to watch it numerous times on Youtube before NBC yanked it off.

Well done, Michael! Well, done. I am very proud of you.

It has also come to my attention that you are going to receive quite a bit of endorsements - including a $1 million dollar bonus check from Speedo. That's wonderful news, Michael. You deserve it!

However... I think it's time to let you know how much anguish you have caused me since the beginning of the Olympic games. You see, as one of your biggest fans, I made it a point to stay up late every night in order to watch you swim. This resulted in many things... sleep deprivation, ignoring my children, stomping around in a bad mood after going to bed at 1:00 in the morning only to be woken up by my children at 5:30. Completely ignoring my husband. Feeding my children junk food. Living off coffee for the last 10 days....

As you can see, Michael, staying up late and rooting for you took it's toll.

And this is why I'm writing this letter. I believe, that as your biggest fan, I'm due some sort of - oh, how would you say it - financial remuneration for basically devoting the last week of my life to you and your Olympic dreams.

Now, you may wonder how exactly you're responsible for all of this, but had you set less lofty goals for yourself - say, maybe trying to win only three gold medals instead of eight - I might have had some extra time last week to devote to my husband, children, and home. Instead, I was so focused on watching you swim that I never even noticed when my three-year old shoved a pair of scissors up her nose. Fortunately, my husband, who is just as big a fan - but a lot less obsessive - noticed and yanked the scissors out of her nose before she caused any permanent damage.

But, Michael, do you understand the repercussions of this? She could have made a third hole in her nose. Do you know how embarrassing that could have been? Now, she didn't actually do it, but the stress of thinking that she could have is more than I can bear... so I think you should be held responsible for the emotional stress of constantly replaying "What If" scenarios over and over in my head.

You can make the check out to Leslie. That's with an i and e - not an "ey".

Also, Michael, I have been surviving on about 3 or 4 hours of sleep for the last 10 days. Had you just put a bit of thought into it and actually skipped the Beijing Games and held off until the 2012 London games - which is in a much friendlier time zone - I would not be in this mess.

Unless, of course, London decides to schedule swim meets at 10:00 in the morning and then I'm forced to get up and turn on the TV at 4 am. But still, it's better than not even getting to watch you swim until 10:00 AT NIGHT.

I don't think you realize how this constant lack of sleep has affected me. Sunday was my birthday. 35. Yep, halfway to seventy. We had a big day planned of going to the outlet mall and eating at McDonald's.

Some of us, Michael, did not just get a million dollar athletic endorsement.

Anyway, lack of sleep causes severe emotional fragility. The fact that I broke down in Old Navy upon the realization that my two sons have outgrown the cute 5T pajama sets and are now forced to wear clothes in the big boy section - which are not nearly as cute - and thus, I could not spend my birthday money on them (aren't I a good mom?) by buying them matching dinosaur PJ's... well, the fact that I actually broke down over that and sobbed... well, I put the blame squarely on you.

No, it had nothing to do with me PMS'ing. Or turning 35. Or feeling stressed out that I actually went shopping on tax-free weekend. No. It had everything to do with devoting the last week of my life to you. You, Michael. You.

But nothing compares to the sheer horror that my husband experienced when I bawled my eyes out over the fact that a fish fillet sandwich now costs $3.59.

We're not talking the meal, here. We're talking just the sandwich.

$3.59.

Clearly, old Ronald McDonald is on crack.

And needing to support his habit.

There is no way that a teeny bit of a fried fish patty should cost over two bucks.

The point, though, is that I lost it. Absolutely lost it. The cumulation of the last week's events reached the breaking point. Lack of sleep. Lack of good nutrition. Depression over realizing that I will never get to be in the Olympics. Depression over realizing that I will never look like a beach volleyball player. Weight gain over consoling myself with chocolate chip banana muffins. Ignoring my children. Ignoring my husband. Ignoring my blog. Ignoring my friends. Sleepwalking through the day because I stayed up too late watching YOU.

Michael, babe, you owe me. Big time.

Feel free to email me personally and I'll give you my snailmail.

Oh, I also take Paypal.

And, if you're feeling extra generous, slipping a few tickets to the London Games wouldn't hurt.

Enjoy your golds!

Love,

Your Biggest Fan

P.S. Lest you think I'm being extremely harsh on you, I am writing a similar letter to the U.S. Women's Gymnastics Team.