If football season were a person, I’d walk right up to them without saying a word and punch them in the face. Well, that may not be entirely true because I’m just not that hostile, and way too cowardly. I’d be more apt to making a voodoo doll and hiding in the back of a closet jabbing thumb tacks into its feet and giving it tittie-twisters.
But, like it or not, football is a fact of life I must acknowledge (notice: I did not say embrace). Much like my loathing of onions, I can, on occasion, convince myself it’s not so bad and swallow it with an ice-cold beer. Yet, if I’m doing the ordering, I will always specify – NO onions.
Yes, football and onions go hand in hand in my book. Oh I’ll keep trying them, just in case my tastes miraculously change, but for now – gimme a beer and let me hold my nose and swallow.
At first I blamed it on high school – we were a new school, our team sucked (no offense Coug’s) and being on the dance team, I had to endure hours of butt kickings. This did not put a good taste in my mouth.
Ingeniously, I opted to go to a university that wasn’t as football-crazed as some other options. I had a nice 4 year hiatus from the sport and nearly drank away the memories from years past.
Then, I met my future husband.
My future husband, who Loves (see what I did there…loves with a capital L?) football.
He’s cute, I’ll watch a game or two. Or ten. In one day. And the next day. And the next. Every weekend. For six months.
Ohhhh lordy. Maybe if I can understand the game, I can enjoy it. So, I asked questions. Lots of I’m-showing-the-true-color-of-my-hair questions. And I paid attention. I could identify the hand signal for offsides…and knew what it meant! I would make small bets on games and actually want to watch them!
This was ground-breaking stuff, people.
I thought I was cured.
And then I was pregnant. I couldn’t swallow it down with beer! Like many epiphany’s I had once I became pregnant, I realized why it is that I dislike football so much. It’s not that highschool football ruined me, or that I just didn’t get it…it’s that I am a selfish little attention hog.
This shouldn’t have alluded me for so long. I know this about myself. Call it youngest-child syndrome, but it is what it is.
I simply can’t handle having my man be too caught up toggling between fantasy football scores on his phone and 3 different games on tv because he just HAS to know if his receiver just caught that 43 yard touchdown to notice me. Too caught up to notice that Easton is down for the night, I have finished my glass of wine…and a chapter of fifty shades of grey…and am giving him that look.
And then I get the “could you move over, baby” as he peers around me to catch the hilarious ESPN commercial that has played during every commercial break for the last 2 hours.
OH. HELL. NO.
Football season can die a fiery death. I will not be attending the funeral.
And don’t worry, I can safely say this merely weeks before our wedding, with no fear of Christian reading this and calling it off because he already knows exactly how I feel about football…and him 🙂