ArcaMax

The word "dissociation" gets bandied about in these chaotic times, usually in context of watching forced proximity dating shows or capybara videos. This type of mental clocking out is passable but ultimately unfulfilling. It's numbing at best, doing little to stoke the champion fires within.

The Olympics, though. The Olympics have dropped into the universal consciousness at the perfect time, a proverbial tube of Aquaphor for our dry and cracked souls. Need I rehash all the geopolitical reasons the people need this feel-good content, the contrived unity sprinkled with the correct amount of Snoop Dogg? The proper dose of Simone Biles? The necessary croissants? I think not.

Stuffed with schmaltz and controversy against a scaffolding of baroque athletic rules, these games have the effect of a good doomscroll with the neural pathway fortification of, say, a crossword puzzle. The Olympics are on morning, noon and night, including the crucial Diet Coke hour of 3 p.m. From offices, coffee shops and laptops, they transport us to niches that could never crack an algorithm of Pomeranian content.

For instance, in the span of one afternoon, I background-watched the USA women's basketball team defeat Japan (USA! USA!) while dealing with an unpleasant task at work. A happy little rum floater atop a cheap drink. This followed women's 10-meter air rifle, programming I can safely say I would never otherwise seek out. Congratulations to Ban Hyojin of South Korea!

As I type this, men from France and Norway are doing ... something? Throwing a small ball on a court with soccer goals at each end. I've been watching for 20 minutes and still don't know. The announcers don't explain, just scream, "Norway in white with possession and a five-goal lead!" I'm going to look it up, hold on.

It's handball. I thought that was for middle school boys with projectiles, but OK. See? That's elite dissociation. I learned something new and didn't think about democracy once.

When American gymnast Stephen Nedoroscik whipped off his spectacles like Superman and obliterated the pommel horse, I felt invincible, too. Like if I tried hard enough to specialize in one task -- I don't know, making mosaic coffee tables? -- I, too, could be the best in the field. The confidence with which these premier athletes perform is vastly more inspiring than looking at one more budget-friendly recipe idea on TikTok.

In just a short time, these games will fly away. We must wait two years for our next mental vacation to Milan and Cortina d'Ampezzo, at which point we can all become vocal experts in the intricacies of the triple Salchow and super giant slalom.

That's for the best. Having the Olympics all the time would be akin to Christmas every day, birthday cake for every meal. It sounds fun, but the saccharine storylines of hope and perseverance would grow tiresome, unleashing emotional Type 2 diabetes across the land. Excellence would become rote. Hope would sunset.

Savor it, folks. Become annoyingly patriotic, if only through Aug. 11. Weep openly at dive bars. Imagine that you, too, could still become a top contender in Olympic trampoline. Cancel plans, for the women from the Netherlands and Spain are up in handball. For 60 minutes, nothing else exists.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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