It’s been a week since the end of the 2012 Olympics and I’m still experiencing symptoms of P.O.S.A. (Post-Olympics Separation Anxiety.)

Going that first Monday after the games completely cold turkey was brutal and begged the eternal, existential question: What the hell am I going to do now?

If competing in the London games was grueling for Phelps and Bolt, watching from my Lazy-Boy recliner wasn’t such a snap, either. All those trips to the fridge took their toll. (There's an old joke that goes back to vaudeville, that you're as old as how much noise you make when you get up out of your chair.)