The Football Widow
True, Peyton Manning looks better in spandex than I do, but is this really what I've earned?
Most people would agree that men are simple creatures. They like things will barbecue grill marks on them. They like remotes. They like naps. They say what they mean. Simple, right? So could someone please explain to me why the majority of men are obsessed with one of the most time consuming, complex endeavors ever? Football isn't simple. It isn't devoid of emotion. It keeps men awake when they would otherwise be napping away a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I've got to think there is more than cheerleaders in hot pants behind this aberration of nature.
College football began at the end of August. During the first quarter of the first game I turned to Spike and asked, "So when does the season end?"
"Honey, this is the first game of the season."
"Right. When does it end?"
It's not that I begrudge him a little sports (note to self - I totally begrudge him all sports) but football in particular gets me going. Here I am, the faithful little wife of ten years, married and accustomed to the ups and downs of matrimony, but come Saturday, all I can think about is how I want to bomb every college football field in America.
True, I can't run a five minute mile like most wide receivers. I can't hit a fly off the wall across the room with a perfect spiral football throw. I've never tackled a grown man to the ground or gotten a grass stain on my forehead. There will be no younger, fresher second string replacement for me when I'm tired, crabby or creaky. I shouldn't be surprised to be a football widow at the age of 30. Maybe I should make a better effort to compete in the field.
There are the "Ty Detmer" wives who are fun for a few years but then fizzle out. But I want to be a "Brett Favre" wife, getting better and sexier every year. Who is to say my time to shine is up? In order to regain my husband's admiration and affection on Saturdays, I need to get my butt to training camp and make myself a competitor.
A couple of possible training goals for myself:
That's all I've got for you today. Pray for Mojo.
Most people would agree that men are simple creatures. They like things will barbecue grill marks on them. They like remotes. They like naps. They say what they mean. Simple, right? So could someone please explain to me why the majority of men are obsessed with one of the most time consuming, complex endeavors ever? Football isn't simple. It isn't devoid of emotion. It keeps men awake when they would otherwise be napping away a perfectly good Saturday afternoon. I've got to think there is more than cheerleaders in hot pants behind this aberration of nature.
College football began at the end of August. During the first quarter of the first game I turned to Spike and asked, "So when does the season end?"
"Honey, this is the first game of the season."
"Right. When does it end?"
It's not that I begrudge him a little sports (note to self - I totally begrudge him all sports) but football in particular gets me going. Here I am, the faithful little wife of ten years, married and accustomed to the ups and downs of matrimony, but come Saturday, all I can think about is how I want to bomb every college football field in America.
True, I can't run a five minute mile like most wide receivers. I can't hit a fly off the wall across the room with a perfect spiral football throw. I've never tackled a grown man to the ground or gotten a grass stain on my forehead. There will be no younger, fresher second string replacement for me when I'm tired, crabby or creaky. I shouldn't be surprised to be a football widow at the age of 30. Maybe I should make a better effort to compete in the field.
There are the "Ty Detmer" wives who are fun for a few years but then fizzle out. But I want to be a "Brett Favre" wife, getting better and sexier every year. Who is to say my time to shine is up? In order to regain my husband's admiration and affection on Saturdays, I need to get my butt to training camp and make myself a competitor.
A couple of possible training goals for myself:- Buy calf-length spandex and practice putting them on without vomiting.
- Perfect my diaper toss so that I can hit the garbage can with a loaded diaper from 60 yards.
- Don't shower after working out
- Stop using multisyllabic words
- Practicing bulging my neck muscles in the mirror to perfect the intimidating look
- Trash a hotel room
- Pray for Obama to criminalize college sports
That's all I've got for you today. Pray for Mojo.
Comments
Luckily we also don't have TV so our game viewing is restricted to what they have on ESPN360.com It helps keep things under control. My advice - cancel you tv plan :-)