Every two years, when the Olympic Games air on television, fans all over the world gather around their TV sets to witness this ultimate sports competition dating back to 776 BC. Viewers fall into two categories: Those who are purely in awe of Olympic athletes’ extreme athleticism, persistent dedication and extraordinary talents. And, those viewers who watch with a twinge of narcissistic satisfaction, believing that they closely identify with Olympic Athletes due to their own nebulous past involvement in sports.

Back in 2012 during the London Summer Olympic Games, I realized that my husband, Francis, falls firmly into the latter category.

I used to be a sprinter,” Francis said, while lying prone on our couch, watching the men’s 200 meter with a bag of tortilla chips balanced on his paunch.

Is he being serious? I wondered, snorting out an incredulous chuckle.

Are you being serious?” Anna asked, looking up at her dad while sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the couch.

“Oh, sure. Back in ‘88 when I was in Aviation Officer Candidate School down in Pensacola, my sergeant recruited me to be a sprinter for field day.”

Somehow, I kept my Diet Coke from shooting from my nose and gave my daughter a knowing wink.

The Olympics had that effect on Francis. Despite his relatively sedentary middle-aged life, watching the Olympics compelled him to relive his youth, mediocre athleticism and former waistline. I sympathized. We all long for the days when we had hair and lean muscles, drove used Chevettes, didn’t pay taxes, ate cold pizza for breakfast and found no use for fiber supplements.

Thank goodness, our children didn’t know us back then. They made the perfect audience for our little ego trips down memory lane … or Fantasyland, as it were.

“Now, you see,” Francis bellowed later that evening from our TV room during the Men’s Quadruple Sculls final, “In my crew days back at GWU, we had to be in tip-top condition to be able to withstand the rigors of the sport.” The kids looked on doubtfully.

I knew the truth, but I didn’t want to burst Francis’ bubble. Crew was something he did in college to enhance his image as the wrinkled-khaki-button-down-oxford-penny-loafer-preppy frat boy, in hopes it might score him a few decent chicks. He milked that gig until graduation, and then never set foot in a crew shell again.

But he analyzed the sport from his armchair as if he’d been an Olympic contender.

“See, that one there is the ‘coxswain’ who needs to be small and light. I was far too muscular for that position,” he said between sips of beer.

I must admit I, too, have claimed former athletic prowess while watching the Olympics from the comfort of my well-worn spot on the couch.

“What you don’t know about your mother is that I swam in college. Yup. Miami of Ohio was Division I, so it was a pretty big deal.”

I conveniently left out that I was one of only two walk-ons to try out for my college swim team. There were only two open spots, so the coach had to take us both. The other girl was a better swimmer than I was, but she quit after two weeks. That effectively made me the only walk-on, and the worst swimmer on the team by a mile. I only lasted a year.

The kids didn’t need to know that part.

And now, with the Paris Summer Olympics coming to an end, we’ll have to once again face our middle-aged reality. However, not for long. The 2026 Winter Olympics in Italy won’t be far off.

Francis will likely relive the winter he mastered the rope tow on the bunny slope during ski lessons in Maryland. And I’ll recall the burgeoning talents I exhibited at the local ice skating rink during those snowy Pennsylvania winters of my childhood.

We won’t mention that Francis hated ski lessons, and only agreed to go because his mother promised to buy him hot cocoa. And I’ll keep it my little secret that I never made a complete rotation around the skating rink without falling.

No need to spoil a good story with reality.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com