Why Olympic Figure Skating Always Sucks Us In

The costumes alone are worth the price of admission. These athletes are wearing what would happen if a disco ball had a baby with a ballet costume and then bedazzled it within an inch of its life. The sequins catch the light in a way that makes our brains release the same happy chemicals we get from watching fireworks. You could put someone in one of those outfits and have them skate in circles for four minutes, and we'd still be entertained.

The commentators start talking about "quadruple salchows" and "triple toe loops," and we all nod along like we totally get it while munching on our popcorn. In reality, most of us are just counting the number of times they spin in the air and hoping they land without cracking their skull open. The technical score involves something called a Grade of Execution, and while we have no idea what constitutes a good GOE, we'll definitely have opinions about it.

Skaters who perform early in the competition get stuck watching two dozen people try to beat their score while they sit backstage stress-eating protein bars. Meanwhile, the people who skate last have the delightful experience of knowing exactly what score they need to win, which sounds helpful but is actually psychological torture. We all watch the standings shift after every performance like we're monitoring stock prices during a market crash.

The judging panel uses a complex system involving technical elements, program components and decimal points that seem to have been determined by some ancient algorithm known only to a secret society of figure skating elders. They're evaluating things like "transitions" and "interpretation" while we're just hoping nobody falls during the spinny part.

The trust required to let someone launch you skyward and then catch you while balancing on ice skates is absolutely bananas. One wrong move and we’re talking awkward landings or a blade coming way too close for comfort while we’re holding our breath and gripping the nearest cushion. When pairs stick the landing on a throw jump, though, it feels like witnessing a legitimate miracle.

Suddenly, everyone has notes. Uncle Bob, who hasn't exercised since 1987 is critiquing someone's artistic interpretation. That weird coworker who trips over flat surfaces is explaining why that landing wasn't clean enough. We absorb just enough information from the commentators to sound semi-informed, then we unleash our opinions with the confidence of people who definitely could not do a single crossover without holding onto the wall.