The weather is crispy, leaves are falling and there is a slight breeze outside. You love the weather, the feel of fall’s arrival. You’ve eagerly swapped your summer short-shorts for autumn attire: sweaters, boots, scarves…and jerseys.
I’m sorry, but who looks good in a football jersey besides your mega-hot boyfriend and ACTUAL FOOTBALL PLAYERS? Nobody, that’s who.
I don’t care if you say you love it, there is no way in hell that you actually enjoy listening to a room full of dudes scream at the TV like the players can actually hear them. All of the couch-coaching that happens is enough to make me want to blast Celine Dion through headphones, shove my head through a wall and never come out. (The boys will be tortured soon enough by CD performing at half-time. Her once perfect-pitch has flown south for the rest of forever. Sorry, mom.)
Now, I will admit that some of the tastiest creations that have come out of my kitchen have been athletic-event based because large group meals are just easier to prepare, in my mind; it’s the southern, slightly-Cajun girl in me I suppose. My need to feed large crowds helps me overlook the thirteen sweaty, screaming dudes in the living room, and their miserable girlfriends, wives and baby-mamas that are sprawled out all over my living room, trying to look enthusiastic in matching monogrammed dresses, tanks and tops. Really? Ladies, you’re telling me that as soon as your feet hit the ground on a gorgeous Saturday or Sunday morning, your first thought is who the Rangers are going to slaughter today? Wait, that’s base-hockey, right? See, I know the things.
I just felt like I needed, nay deserved, to fuss about this. I have tried to care about football for years. I have made more crock pot chilies, seven-layer dips, wings, nachos etc etc etc than I could possibly count; football food is delicious, I will admit to that. I love the freedom it gives you to just binge-eat crappy food because it’s traditional to do so. I have housed a many a hungry man for LSU/Saints vs. Whoever games and have taken groceries out of my refrigerator to fill it with shitty, cheap beer. I figured I owed it to myself to at very least record my football woes for posterity – and perhaps other women who hate the five months of football we dispassionately endure.
I like athletics, I do. I enjoy going to a sporting event and cheering on the preferred team – baseball is actually my favorite, basketball and hockey following after. I just don’t understand why it’s so consuming…there are SO many other things to be excited about.
I mean seriously, the only memorable football event I recall was that one time I got blasted on Fireball at a bar in the French Quarter and did the Single Ladies dance in front of a larger than life projector. Beyoncé was the half-time show and I wanted to dance along….I’m really happy no one thought to take out their phone and record, though I could have been a YouTube sensation by now. FCKING FOOTBALL.
Other things to be excited about:
Example A: I am currently in rehearsal for one of the coolest shows I’ve ever been in. Its historical fiction and dryly hilarious, but do you see people getting hyped up over the arts like the Super Bowl or local jamboree? (how stupid is that? you’re literally capitalizing the words super and bowl…this sounds more like a competition on who could smoke the most pot the fastest.) No, no one gets excited about theater and that’s a shame. I’m really trying to keep this from turning in to a rant about how the arts aren’t supported, but I’m not sure if I can.
Side note: How are Super Bowl Commercials better than regular commercials? I don’t watch much TV but I still don’t get it.
Example B: Live music. You’re trying to convince me with your indoor fireworks and half-naked girls on the sidelines that FOOTBALL is better than seeing someone beat the shit out of the drums, while a guitar wails some sick solo? I’m sorry, but I’m not buying it. 99.9% of musicians are better looking, even more talented with their hands and oh I’m sorry…don’t beat their wives and get away with it. Win, win, win.
Maybe I’m slightly jilted because I had no promise of any sort of athletic career. Maybe I just hate how I don’t understand the rules or why it’s necessary to throw a flag on the field after someone breathes. Maybe I’m just jealous because I was supposed to be a famous athlete’s future ex-wife. I don’t know. Either way, I hate football and will just hide behind the egg rolls and salsa until it’s all over.