Sunday, September 27, 2009
Football (Weekend Whine)
With family and friends scattered far and wide, we're often away from home on the weekends. But on the rare occasion when I can be found sitting here with nothing to do on a Saturday night, my mind tends to wander (and wonder.) This often leads to the writing down of thoughts, feelings, reflections, and yes, rants. I may even start a regular feature here on The Other Side of Fifty titled "Weekend Whine." We'll see how this develops.
This particular whine revolves around football as it relates to my life, family and marriage. In my hubby's defense, it's not like I didn't realize he was a football junkie when I married him. I saw the telltale signs of his addiction throughout our courtship but failed to acknowledge and address those track marks peppering the arm of our relationship. Even on our wedding day nearly 31 years ago, when I found him sitting at the bar watching the Ohio State game, I failed to admit to the depth of the addiction. The Buckeyes played Illinois that day and won big, 45-7, and I'm pretty sure they'd have pulled off this win without my husband playing barstool quarterback, but for some reason his addiction kept him from totally giving himself to me that day.
Fast forward to January 17, 1988. If you're a Cleveland Browns fan, I don't even have to elaborate on the misery suffered that day and I apologize in advance for reopening the wound and pouring a bucket of salt into it. That game will forever be referred to as "The Fumble," and as Ernie Byner fell from grace at the Broncos' 3-yard line with 65 seconds remaining , my hubby climbed into the attic, disconnected the cable TV, and stomped off to bed. This of course might be acceptable behavior when you're watching the game with just your wife and children, but when you leave two Bronco fans (whom you'd invited over to watch the game) sitting there on the couch wondering about the game's outcome, it can be a little embarrassing to the wife who's left behind to do the explaining and apologizing.
I've gotten used to being a football widow for the most part. I've found my own interests and hobbies that occupy my time during the fall weekends. Time mellows us all, and I'm a firm believer in picking only the battles that truly matter at this stage of my life. But hubby's latest antics have forced me to suit up in rusted armor once again and take a stand. A few weeks back he texted every Buckeye fan in his cell phone address book and asked if anyone wanted to get in on tickets to next weekend's Ohio State/Indiana game in Bloomington. As the replies came back, the tally grew quickly and hubby then ordered $800 worth of tickets to the game. I was upset about this because he hadn't told me of this plan before he did this, but what came next made me want to drop kick him into next week. It turns out that he'd offered our home as Tailgate Central before the game, promising food and drink to all. I'm almost still OK with that, really I am. But the gauntlet was tossed when he told me that he'd also offered sleeping arrangements to this entire group. That's when I experienced a meltdown the likes of which haven't been seen since November 22, 1986,' when in the season's final game against Michigan, Ohio State kicker Matt Frantz missed the game-winning field goal with a minute left to play. In an attempt to comfort my very upset hubby after the devastating loss, I reached around to hug him and that's when he shrugged away from me and said, "Get the f#*! away from me."
What am I doing next weekend, you ask? I'm going to get the f#*! away from him. I'm packing my bags and heading north to visit a friend. Hubby can play host with the most and figure out what he's cooking and where he's going to sleep twenty people.
(And we'll see if I'm brave enough to leave this post up on my blog for him to see when he gets to work on Monday...LOL)