It’s the day when I walk around at work smiling and you all want to punch me in the face. It’s awesome. I’m not sure if it’ll be quite so bad this year, because none of my coworkers had anyone to root for–the Patriots weren’t in the Super Bowl, the Bills and Jets got wiped out, and the only Giant in the house last night was Phil Simms.
I can’t really talk about football with authority this year–I used to know every stat–won the football pool on a regular basis in my first job until I got ejected. The guys weren’t comfortable with a girl who beat them on stats rather than the preferred female technique of picking the winners based on how good the players’ behinds looked in the spandex. I was insulted–any moron can memorize football stats on fewer than 20 regular season games. It’s not like trying to memorize fifteen million baseball games. I took my ejection as a compliment and a concession of victory. I paid for a timing belt and a few weeks of groceries, too.
The last few years, I have slowly but surely divorced myself from sports. It started when I got married. I hate to blame this on my husband but it seems the fair thing to do–he hates to armchair quarterback. Nothing annoyed him worse at his prior job than out of shape people discussing what the team should have done.
“Get out and play,” he’d say, much like the NFL player campaign to defeat child laziness. So, on football day–a day previously reserved for cooking and chucking stuff at my team on the small-screen TV, we had to go out and do real stuff.
I missed football for a while–it was like a withdrawal from a favorite soap opera. We all used to watch Days of our Lives until it turned out that the days of our lives were passing without us and we had to do stupid things like work. Tivo hadn’t been invented and using VCR tapes was a pain in the ass because someone would always tape over episodes before I had a chance to watch anyway–it was new technology, tough to set the timer right to begin with. Eventually, I didn’t care what happened to those ridiculous people in that ridiculous town. I never thought that would happen with sports, which I loved much more than Days.
What I found, was that without being married to the television, I could be married to life. It posed a few conversational problems, though. I couldn’t just say “Nah, I went for a hike and didn’t watch the game,” because people would look at me like I was insane, especially in this area–two feet away from the Patriots and Sox. So, as with most things, I found a manifesto worked best. Mine included a warm-up speech about how sports were when I was a kid–when you could go to a Yankee game for six bucks and afford to take the whole family, and now you’d have to sell a car to do the same. That there’s no more “for the love of the game,” and player scandals rock every edition of Sports Illustrated. No sir, I’m protesting! I’m not going to watch until the average working family can afford to go. Until then, I’ll watch UConn. I’d only have to say it once–they’d never, ever bother me again. Manifestos work even if they’re not true–any local fan would know I’m lying. The reason is this–you can’t even get UConn tickets these days without having a serious connection–even college ball is an industry. If I were telling the truth, I’d be left with Little League to watch.
So, last night I watched half the game and did some work. I followed through on my threat to bother friends in San Francisco and Maryland with texts and Tweets. When bed time came, I shook the Magic 8 Ball, congratulated the winner, and slept.
If I appear a little foggy today, that’s not because I’m hung over like half of the nation. It’s because I have a five-year old who doesn’t sleep. Even so, I’m happy this Hangover Monday. I’m even wondering if there’s a Hallmark card for the occasion, “Sorry, your team lost and you look like crap today.” “HAPPY MONDAY–CAN I BLAST SOME MUSIC??!!!!” “Sorry for your loss,” or “What are you going to do NOW for the next eight weeks till baseball? Exercise?” Someone should invent those cards–I’d buy them.
Yes, I’m awake, happy, and quick enough to dodge the punches I know will be thrown for sure. I’ll be okay. Hungover people are slow and never punch straight anyway.
[image: thechive.com and waeblogs.starnewsonline.com]