I can't tell you how excited I am about the Super Bowl Sunday!! Really, I can't. Because I'm not. Oh, I'll probably wander through the family room at ad times, just to see what edgy humor and special effects a jillion bucks a minute buys these days. I might catch a glimpse of the halftime show, because I've been a fan of Madonna's since I was a little girl. But the gridiron competition itself? For one thing, I lack the background info necessary to truly appreciate the game (it is the Giants and the Patriots, right?) But more importantly, I lack the interest. And at this point in my life, I'm not afraid to say it.
Time was, I was an utter fraud. Because Steve was a rabid sports fan, and because I was a rabid Steve fan, I feigned wild enthusiasm for the World Series, the NCAA Final Four Tournament, and the PGA tour. Couldn't wait to get up early and catch the action at Wimbledon. Never mind that, deep down, I would only have been intrigued by tennis if McEnroe and Connors were lobbing, say, a live ferret back and forth over the net.
For the first few years we were together, we hosted a small Super Bowl party. Actress that I was, I rooted for the star quarterback as he snaked through a line of behemoths en route to that silly little victory dance. On pain of death, I'd still be unable to recall a single team or player from those golden days of sport. Can't even remember the commercials. Just a total blank.
By the way, my make-believe enjoyment extended to the Bob Dylan tickets I bought for us in our dating days. What is the big deal about Dylan? Steve thinks he’s great. Don’t get it. But I dutifully rose to my feet with the crowd as The Great One mumbled that the times they were a changin'.
Around about year four of wedded life, I dropped the facade. Miraculously, my marriage has survived the following revelations: 1) I truly detest Bob Dylan songs. 2) I will NEVER carry Steve’s golf clubs again (I’d once done this for 18 holes). 3) The second my hubby leaves the room, I switch from Sportscenter to the Food Channel. 4) I hate the Olympics! It seems they come along every 3 months or so, hyped to the nth degree. I am afraid to watch the young athletes' dreams crash and burn when they slip doing a triple axel, or bungle it on the balance beam, and feel they have a better shot at success if I stay far, far away.
So what are my plans for Sunday evening?
Nothing involving touchdowns, that’s for sure. The Crown Jewel of American Sports will glitter on without me. That leaves some popcorn in the bowl, and an open spot on our sofa. If you’re a fan, come on by. You and Steve can cheer yourselves hoarse. I am, officially, bowled over.