My older brother can't be described as anything other than a Guy's Guy. He played football in high school, and married one of his first girlfriends who, in a shocking display of Jack & Diane-ness, was a cheerleader for that very football team. Professionally, to the dismay of anyone I date, he is literally a trained killer—he's a fighter pilot for the Navy. He's been to Iraq, he's broken the sound barrier. If possible, he would exist on a diet made up entirely of grilled meats. On paper, he is probably the most masculine person that I know. But the Olympics does weird things to all of us. For my brother Bud, it makes him send me heartfelt text messages about male athletes.

“Cris, I am totally gay for Michael Phelps.”

Bud doesn't frequently get man-crushes, but when he does, he falls hard. All of his Olympic texts to me were about how much he loves Michael Phelps and wants to be him when he grows up (Bud is 31). Most of mine were contained to making fun of the outfits in the opening ceremonies. (“Denim Capris? Stay classy, Denmark.”)

In my defense.... come on.  
 http://sports.espn.go.com/oly/summer08/columns/story?id=3525843

I mean, really.
 
Towards the end of the games, Bud came to visit and we took his one year old daughter to play in the park. In Meg's world, everything is divided into three piles: Things I Can Put In My Mouth; Things With Buttons; Other. My blackberry counts as two out of three. Whenever I sense that Meg is getting bored with me, I just hand it over and hope that she doesn't accidentally send any damning emails to a work distro.

“I think he has to be a genetic mutant,” I say, speaking, of course, of my brother's Olympic boyfriend. “You know how Lance Armstrong has that thing where he doesn't build up lactic acid because he had surgery and only has one ball now?”

“Ba?” Meg said, pointing my blackberry at me. She only knows two words.
 
“Yes, ball!” I told her encouragingly, and she went back to twirling in circles and then falling down.
 
“I don't think that's why Lance Armstrong doesn't have any lactic acid buildup, but okay,” Bud indulged me. “And he is kind of a mutant. He has a really long torso, so his arm span is way longer than it should be for his height.”
 
“I have a really long torso!” I exclaimed, extremely excited to have something in common with Michael Phelps. It's true, though. I'm all upper body. Finding shirts that reach beyond my waistline and don't make me look like jersey shore trash is a constant struggle. Some cruel trick of nature made me 5'10 with the legs of a 5'5 woman. I'm not bitter.
 
“Maybe I should be an Olympic swimmer,” I concluded. Meg looked up from the blade of grass she was considering eating and pointed at the sun.
 
“Ba!” she yelled.
 
“Yes, ball!” Bud and I said in unison, both fuzzy on the actual properties of the sun or blinded by love for the perfect toddler before us.
 
“You should give it a try,” Bud told me. Ever since he had Meg, I can feel him practicing his parenting skills on me. It's gotten to be a fun, one-sided game that I play—what ridiculous statement can I get Bud to agree with because of this inherent need to be supportive that kicked in the second Meg appeared in this world.
 
“I'd make a great Olympian. Our family is pretty athletic,” I concluded. Bud's daughter, having completed four full standing rotations for no apparent reason, collapsed into a dizzy ball (or, ba!) on the grass. Look for her to bring home the gold in the 2024 games.