Believe it or not, I did not plan on going to London during the Olympics.
Alas, my propensity for procrastination reared its ugly head, and I found myself sardine-packed into more than one uncomfortably awkward tube rides while eavesdropping in on the latest news from "the games".
Unfortunately, I couldn't help the countless Hunger Games parallels that came to mind - which succeeded at put a notable damper on any healthy competitive spirit I might have been able to muster for the occasion.
In truth, I am one of (if not the) least competitive people (person) you will ever meet, so any "team spirit" usually devolves into a hearty cheer (read: silent mental note of encouragement) for whatever team is in last place.
You know I just spent all my time posing with statues anyways.
|sweater: Zara, shirt: Old Navy, pants: UO, shoes: Superga|
And the excessive eggs and Guinesses over which I viewed the sporty splendor didn't seem phased. Is it embarrassing to say that I was probably more interested in the consistency of the yolks or the cider-to-Guiness ratio of my newly discovered mixed-drink obsession?
But not as embarrassing as this.