While most people are all amped up for football season, getting their fantasy football line ups set & rocking their favorite jersey, I’m in the corner with my football voodoo doll stabbing away…because I HATE football…a lot! You see, from September to February, I am what we call a “football widow.” Sunday is no longer part of the weekend in my house. My husband hibernates down in his man cave from sun up to sun down & only emerges briefly for food. And by brief, I mean he runs upstairs & grabs food from the pantry so fast you would think he’s one of the “Burglar Bunch” kids who just broke into Lindsay Lohan’s house & stole all her shoes.
The morning starts off with him turning on the laptops (yes, plural) & “researching” his players to determine who he’s going to play that day in his fantasy football league…or something like that. I really don’t understand it at all. I mean, is fantasy football the grown up equivalent of Dungeons & Dragons? It’s all make believe, right? During this time, he can’t be interrupted. He’s studying. Making BIG decisions. Huge, even. It’s like he’s unveiled a massive scientific discovery that is going to change the course of the universe or something.
Once all that’s out of the way, the phone calls & text messages with his fantasy buddies commence. “Who’d you pick?” “Who are you playing?” That sorta thing. It’s almost sweet to watch. It’s like my 40+ year old husband turns into a giddy 15 year old girl gossiping about the cute boy in school. Except in this case, the “cute boy” is a massive, burly, grown man kicking the crap out of another equally large man on a really big field. (I’ll never quite understand it)
Finally game time has arrived! The phone lines are open, the Red Zone is on the TV (because it is imperative that he watch every single game at one time) & the computers are booted up & ready to go. The kids & I are upstairs listening to him yell, cheer, swear (it happens) & sometimes even whimper over whatever is happening in the foosball games.
Nothing can be scheduled on Sundays during football season. When I was pregnant with our first daughter I was due 2 days before the Super Bowl…2 days! Do you have any idea on how long I had to hear “you better not go into labor on Super Bowl Sunday?” You better believe I tried EVERYTHING to get myself to go into labor precisely on this day…It didn’t work. She came 6 days late. She’s been a Daddy’s girl since before she was even born. Both my kids were born during football season which means birthday parties can only be on a Saturday. Any errands have to get done on Saturday, unless I want to brave it & do them myself on Sunday with BOTH kids.
I’ve tried to watch it. I’ve tried to understand it. I won’t lie, football & all its rules just goes way over my head. And I feel like the games are SO long! Like never ending! Basketball is my thing. It’s pretty straight forward. Easy to watch. Easy to follow. But with football, I don’t think I could even name 5 players. I know Tom Brady because he’s married to Giselle. I know Jay Cutler because he’s married to the girl from Laguna Beach. I know Reggie Bush because he dated Kim Kardashian (and in my opinion, was the reason she totally derailed after he broke up with her). You get where I’m going with all this?
So football season has JUST started (please excuse me while I cry). It owns my husband. It owns my weekends. It owns pretty much every single person on my news feed on Facebook. So I guess you win football, you win.
And while you all have your countdowns to football season & countdowns to the Super Bowl, I have my countdown until March going on!
May the best football widow win.
P.S. I know how dedicated you football fans are! This post is silly & in fun nature. Please don’t eat me alive! 😉