Last week the time was upon us. Kickoff. The start of the pro football season.
I have heard of men not being afflicted with football fever. My husband is not one of them.
My husband has returned home from overseas because of a minor medical issue. It is the first year in six that he can watch games at all times and in real time.
The official first game was easy enough on me because I was not home Thursday night.
Sunday was a different story. Three games in a row – with abundant commentary in between them.
It started at noon and ended around 10 p.m. Since I like to think I am a smart person, I decided to hang out in my friend’s hairdresser salon all Sunday afternoon.
There was cake and coffee, a new hairstyle and some nail filing.
Around 6 p.m. I received a text message from my football-crazy husband claiming he was missing me.
I thought that was sweet, so I hurried home.
When I got home, however, the head of my beloved did not even turn in my direction.
And why would it? I was carrying no football, which made me entirely uninteresting.
I believe I could have had a pole installed and done a pole dance in the living room and hubby would have said something along the lines of, “That’s nice, honey, but could you move a little to the side? You are blocking my view.”
During football season, conversations with my husband consist mainly of what team did what and who got hurt and who is out for the year. It is hard to feign interest after a half hour, but I try my best. Really I do!
The worst thing is how loud hubby gets. He yells at the TV, probably thinking if he yells loud enough players might hear him.
Three bedroom doors slammed shut on Sunday. The kids got tired of the yelling. Dogs were fleeing in all directions. Mom left the house. I am lucky I have my own truck.
Everybody sighed happily when Sunday was over. Then, a terrifying thought jolted through my head.
After Sunday follows Monday and what happens on Monday?
More football. Whoever created the NFL game schedule probably did not want to be around their wives.
I was told the game on Monday wasn’t that important; hubby said he wouldn’t watch it. The next day, however, he said he would just glance at the score as he turned on the TV. Of course, the TV stayed on.
One thing is for certain: During football season, I become what I like to call “commercial entertainment.” During commercial breaks, my husband remembers I am around and actually talks to me.
I decided to make the best of the situation, though. Hanging out with friends on Sundays is nice, too.
I will feel like a football widow for the next four months, but surely the season will end someday, and hubby and I can reconnect on our weekends off ... until the next football season kicks off.