It is not.
Anytime someone tries to explain it to me, it’s as if a fist comes out of my head, sort of like Rock’em Sock’em Robots, and punches the information right in the face. You’d think with all that aggression I’d find the sport entertaining. But football is a language I don’t want to speak. I tried to sit through ten minutes of a game. More like ten minutes of torture.
All I saw was a mass of little critters in matching outfits crawling all over each other chasing a pineapple with no top. I will never be able to comprehend its ability to revert grown-ups into Trunk Monkeys in a matter of minutes.
This Sunday, my husband and son will join the masses. They’ll punch their fists. They’ll call the plays. They’ll blame the coach. They’ll stomp and bolt from their seats with indignation. They’ll high five and belly bump. They’ll stand like ice sculptures, frozen in time. I could put on a gorilla suit and swing from a rope crossing their line of sight. Jack wouldn't notice. Don would grunt at me to bring over more of those Macho Nachos.
I get a kick out of Superbowl Sunday. It’s a day that I can say anything and get away with it.
Me: Don, I cashed in your 401K because I wanted some bling-bling.
Don: Okay. This guy sucks. What a moron.
Me: By the way, I sold the house for half of what it’s worth because the people were so nice.
Don: Good deal. I cannot believe he just did that. What is he in Pop Warner?
Me: I want to move to
Don: Right. Oh My God. Who DOES that?
Me: Wants to be near Elvis?
Don: What? No, who can’t get the field goal?
Me: An idiot?
Don: That's right.
Me: I’ve also decided I want to be a man. Can I wear your underwear?
Don: Sure. Hey, can you get me another one of those Janet Jackson Breast Cupcakes?
If I’m forced to go to a party, I will make sure to step in front of the TV and purposely linger. It’s a lot of fun pretending not to know I’m blocking their view. I love when the men get all red and feisty, waving all crazy for me to get out of the way.
I also like to cheer wildly for a team that isn’t in the Superbowl.
“Go Patriots!!! Woohoo!!! You ROCK!!!” I holler.
You’d think someone pushed their panic buttons.
They fire back, “They’re NOT even PLAYING!!!”
I retort, “I KNOW THAT. I can cheer for them if I WANT.”
Truthfully, Super Bowl Sunday is entertaining for reasons that have nothing to do with football. For most women, we’d rather be shopping or drunk. Or both.
At parties, we like to gather and cluck about our husbands. This is the one day you can drink margeritas and let it all out. In fact, you can sit on your husband’s lap with a megaphone and announce to the crowd that he still likes to be tucked in at night, yells out, “MOMMY!” in his sleep and will only eat melon if it's balled. No one in the room will hear a thing. If you can get him to look at you, he’ll nod in agreement and then bark something back at the TV.
One year I went to the mall during the game and it was like stepping onto a studio lot where they have those fake streets and façade houses. Everyone was gone. The roads were barren. I walked into the mall wondering if it was really open and then noticed I was their only customer. Everyone was so nice to me. They made me realize how special I am.
This year, I’m going to put my Super Bowl Sunday to good use. I’m going to do something adventurous and meaningful. I’m just going to close my eyes and pick a spot on a map and go there.
Okay. I’m closing my eyes. Here I go.
Oh, look at that. I landed on the Queen for A Day Spa. I’ll feel so guilty having all that pampering -- my shakras balanced, finding out who I was in a past life, a mani-pedi and a seaweed-algae-fungus-mud wrap -- while my husband and kids are home without anyone to deliver the snacks. Then again, if I just drop a plate of pork in Don’s lap it will probably be Monday before he realizes I’m gone.