Football is a mystery to me. Growing up I never watched sports except for maybe the Olympics when I was really young, and as I got older I’d probably put on gymnastics or figure skating if there really truly was nothing else to watch (and my idea of something else to watch remains pretty damn liberal in that I have a weakness for terrible TV shows [I spent last Thursday night watching all 10 episodes of Switched at Birth on Netflix]). When I started dating, none of the boys sat around watching sports. Or, if they did, they prioritized sex over watching a game. Such wise boys of my youth.
I do recall one time, on some boring weekend when I was all alone with too much time to kill, I watched some football-themed movie, and by the end of it, I kind of got it, for a moment, but I’m a sentimental fool, and can easily be awash with emotions that aren’t truly mine (yes, fine, I cry during commercials). I don’t even remember the name of that movie, but it was years ago, and it didn’t ignite anything in me other than that momentary spark. The one and only time I actually sat and watched a whole football game was over a decade ago when Wikus and I were in San Diego. That was the longest afternoon of my life, and was only briefly made better by Bananas Foster and lots of beer. (Side note: It just occurred to me that I can thank football for assisting me with losing my virginity, since as a teenager in Texas, saying I was at a football game was a completely plausible excuse, and it was just a short walk from the field to this dude’s house [a few weeks later he was kicked out of Texas for stealing an IROC-Z, and had to go live in Florida with his mother.])
All this to say that I am dating someone who really likes football to this unimaginable-by-me degree. This has my anxiety spiking, and I’m fretting over losing my wonderful summer of Saturdays to a silly (to me) game. A whole stretch of Saturdays for months and months. Saturdays are these golden days of unfettered freedom—they are the only day of the week that don’t have work attached to them in some way. Friday nights I’m tired because I had the burden of Twit and the Ex-Cops and my stupid job in general lying heavily across my shoulders. Sundays are crap because the sinking dread of facing another work week is creeping up on me, making me cranky. Of course Monday through Thursdays are just exercises in trying to convince myself not to take up arms and go on a killing spree (watching crap television helps with that).
When I got laid off in October of 2008, The Boy started scheduling band recordings and rehearsals on Saturdays, which made sense at the time since all my days became Saturdays, not having him around on the actual Saturday didn’t really matter. But, when I landed my current job in February 2009, he didn’t change his schedule—his Saturdays stayed booked, and I was resentful. Thus, these past few months of all-day all-night Saturday fun times have been a bit blissful even if we did nothing exciting, we were together. That’s been incredibly important to me. Now I feel like this closeness will unravel, which is silly, it’s just a day, and if anything, CSP will be happier because football is back in his life, and I may be many things, but apparently, I can’t compete with the feeling he gets watching a bunch of men run around with a ball.
To be clear, I don’t want to change CSP, and I don’t think he wants me to suddenly be in love with football (though, I’m sure that would make things easier), I just wish this shit happened say on a Tuesday night or something. Why does it have to be on Saturdays? I’d even take a Friday night over Saturday. I can easily spend my Friday nights eating popcorn, watching something really pathetically dumb, and going to bed early. That is doable. Whereas Saturday is such a long stretch of time to fill, and I’m incredibly bad at filling time once I’ve exhausted my popcorn, crappy TV and napping options. Somehow, sitting around listening to my Pandora station, eating a late lunch, and having afternoon sex seems almost the same as how I would fill it up on my own, but damn, if it isn’t a really great time when doing it with CSP.
Thankfully, the football watching won’t take place at my house. Yet, I’m a bit torn, in that maybe it would be nice to have it at my place? Good fuck, what the hell am I even saying? This is how much I like this person—I’m contemplating if it would really be so bad to have football on in my living room. Hell yes it would be bad. Terrible. Boring. I’ll be demanding his attention, and I’d be annoyed that I’m not getting it, and he’d be annoyed that I kept getting naked and pressing myself up against the television screen blocking his view of the game. I think I just vomited in my mouth a bit.
Gah. I don’t know. I’m sad. I’m confused. I’m anxious. I’m also happy and giddy, but because my brain is so stupid, it thinks the worst, and jumps to conclusions, and I’m already reacting to them even though they haven’t happened yet. Maybe I should just go adopt that awesome fluffy white and orange tabby kitten I saw in PetSmart yesterday afternoon. He’ll surely solve all my problems. Brekkie and Clementine totally need a playmate their age. I should go do that, right? I’m putting my pants on right now, and heading out the door…
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