This is not a good time to be a femme in America. Starting tomorrow our lives will be kidnapped by the sports bachanalia that is the Superbowl and the Winter Olympics. I don’t know about any other femmes out there but I suspect that many of you will be living a forced three-week stay in a foreign land about which I care zip and that frankly I secretly despise.
My wifey is in sports marketing. We have enough sporty crap in our home to fill A good-sized retail space. From bobblehead hockey players to signed soccer balls–we have it. One sporting event or another is generally on the boob tube until I insist that can we pleeeze watch something about which I give a crap.
The secret to wifey’s overdone relationship to sporting events is that it really doesn’t matter what particular sport is on. Professional Bull Riding, soccer announced in foreign languages, professional Mixed Martial Arts or little league baseball. Doesn’t matter. Just…sports.
But in these next few weeks my wife’s sportslove will be kicked up to a higher notch. There’s the Superbowl of American football followed by the Olympics. She’s foaming at the mouth already.
Apparently even though the Superbowl is an evening event my darling has planned an entire day of festivities. She has a new tshirt and chicken wings and a pizza seems to be required. And that horrid French onion dip that congeals before it hits the stomach.
My strategy for surviving the Superbowl is to grade the commercials from best to worst. I assign points per product according to cinematography message and overall humor. This year there’s been quite alot of controversy surrounding what CBS has allowed in (prolife) and allowed out (us). So there’s something of interest there. Otherwise I plan to make bread and say “wow! Hey! Really? Great!” alot.
I suppose I could try to learn something about football. Like why in the world any parent would ever allow their child to start playing it in the first place. Or why the ball itself is so oddly shaped or what’s a “spiral” or why they pat each other in the butt all the time and don’t see that as homoerotic. But I made a conscious choice to hate sports as a little girl and I am not about to change now.
Then. The Olympics. My darling wife will be setting her alarm at odd hours to watch things like The Luge and Curling. She will be calling me in the middle of the day to confirm that I’ve indeed set the DVR for the hockey game between Latvia and the Czech Republic. She will go to Costco and buy tubs of weird spreadable cheeses and cheetos. She will be in heaven and the television will never be off. For days and days and days.
My calm and diplomatic wife will curse at a flat screen. There’s been talk of getting a new one, a better one, so she can see the beads of sweat more clearly on the faces of male speedskaters. She will throw things and yell at the cats. She will text her butchy friends incessantly, whining about the quality of judging in Couple’s Dance Skating.
This femme’s strategy for surviving the two weeks of Super Sporty Time is to take my wii ping pong and hide in another room. I will cook up a storm. I will, when required, commiserate and congratulate and pretend to cry when the Nation Anthem is played for some young person who has dedicated their life to one of these functions, especially the ones who have inevitably overcome huge obstacles to be up there on that medal stage.
And when it’s all over, blessedly over, for another two years I am going to demand to be laid until my eyes roll back in my head and they stay that way for a week.
Eyes on the prize, femmes. Eyes on the prize.
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