Raise your hand if you are a football widow. I should have
just told you to shake your head, because I know that’s what you really want to
do.
A football fetish never used to be an issue in our house.
For quite a few years the Spouse worked nights and his schedule always entailed
weekends. I had no idea how spoiled I was with having full control of the
remote until he started working weekdays. Up until then the biggest battle was
(and still is) pulling him away from SpongeBob marathons.
Somewhere along the way he became a part of a friendly
football pool at work. His first year playing was his best – he won the pool
and came home with a trophy of sorts. That was all the motivation he needed to start
the next football season yelling at the television and rattling off team stats
as if I was actually listening. Football facts are not something I care about
retaining in my already clogged brain. I dread when he walks out of the room
and thinks I’m paying attention to the score. Paying attention to football is not my calling.
If these games are going to be blaring from the biggest
television in the house all weekend, there has to be a payoff for me. This
often comes in the form of not harassing me as I hone in on really bad reality
TV, like The Bachelor or Say Yes to the Dress, on non-football days.The Spouse is pretty good about this. He draws the line at
awards shows, though. He can afford to be flexible because there are two other
televisions available, and both of them are in the basement. Not counting the
washing machine and dryer, the cats’ litter boxes, and our steady supply of
paper goods from Sam’s Club, the majority of the basement is his man cave.
The best part of being able to send him downstairs is that I
avoid having to listen to him make disparaging comments about which women are
not exactly hiding their crazy on The Bachelor, or question why the bride
dragged along 12 people to help her choose a dress.
I don’t begrudge him his dose of football mania. He doesn’t
stand in front of the game with his chest painted team colors, and he patiently
answers my clueless questions about scores and injuries if I bother to look at
the TV. Of course, the majority of my queries are presented in between plays or
during commercials. I know my limits.
To be honest, I have zero interest in which team is winning
or what player is injured. Not that I want someone to be injured (it’s a mom
thing), but as far as its effects on the game – don’t they have spares? You
know, like understudies who are supposed to be at least comparable in talent
and ability?
I did pay enough attention to hear hooting and hollering
(from the television, not the man) about the New England Patriots winning some
game and going on to some other game in a week or so. Is that right? Oh, come
on, I’m kidding. Even I’m not that clueless. Usually.
The truth is, I ask occasional questions and may even
comment on a play to be a small part of what interests the Spouse. He spent a
lot of years missing out on the opportunity to just relax on a Sunday afternoon
and watch something he considers entertainment. My sole purpose at that moment
might be to refill the cheese and cracker tray, read the newspaper or check out
Facebook as I sit next to him on the sofa and join him in a beer. That’s fine
by me.
As long as it’s not SpongeBob.
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