It started with a credenza. A beautiful, blonde and black credenza circa 1955 that was on sale and would look purrrrrrrrfect in our living room. Black handles, black lacquer top. Sigh, sigh, triple sigh. I bought it on a Saturday and told the vintage furniture store lady we would definitely be picking it up on Sunday. No delivery person was needed because my man owns a truck. (See, there are advantages to dating a native Texan.)
So upon my arrival home on Saturday evening, I announced the birth of our newest piece of living room furniture and my intentions for picking it up the next day.
“Sunday, as in tomorrow Sunday? We can’t pick it up tomorrow,” Kevin said firmly.
“Why not?” I asked, confused. It’s not like we were the type to make plans for a Sunday. Our usual seventh day agenda consisted of eating whatever wasn’t moldy in the fridge, drinking beer, and waiting until Family Guy came on. Maybe, if we were feeling especially industrious, one of us might clean the litter box. What could possibly be happening Sunday to prevent us from picking up the credenza?
“It’s the games, baby. The AFC and NFC championships are Sunday.” Kevin looked at me as if I was crazy to insist he leave the couch to do something domestic like pick up furniture.
What you have to understand about my K-man is that I fell in love with him specifically because he was not the kind of man who was going to sit around watching sports while I whittled away my life reading romance novels and pining for affection. And while he hasn’t transformed into that Tim guy from Home Improvement (God help me), as the years have progressed, he has gotten more and more into watching sports on TV. I’m beginning to wonder if the whole sensitive, not-into-sports thing was merely a façade, like when I pretended to care about bird watching or Tom Waits just because he was into those things. My God, has our entire relationship has been based on lies? Oh well, whose isn’t, right?
Anyway, upon discovering I wasn’t going to be able to pry him out of the living room, I started whining, visions of my credenza dancing in my head. “I thought football was over already,” I said.
Kevin shook his head and gave me a sort of aren’t-you-pathetic look. “It isn’t over until the Super Bowl, remember? You know. The game where you eat tons of snacks and have me call you in to watch the commercials?”
“The one with the bizarre halftime spectacle?” I questioned.
“Yes, that one,” he replied.
“So what are the games this weekend?” I pestered.
“These games determine who goes to the Super Bowl,” he explained patiently. “In fact, these games are usually better than the Super Bowl itself.”
“Good. So we don’t have to watch the Super Bowl?”
“No, we’re still watching it.”
I kicked the ground and pouted, then asked if the Washington Redskins still had a chance. (My hometown team from childhood, it’s the only sports franchise I really give a damn about. Kinda sorta.)
“The Washington Redskins?” Kevin asked, rolling his eyes. Then he just walked away.
As you can probably already tell, watching sports on television is the only time in our progressive, egalitarian relationship when it seems we start to resemble those couples you see on those inane television sitcoms. The ones where an ugly fat man is impossibly paired with a gorgeous, skinny lady (Still Standing, Yes, Dear, King of Queens, etc.)? Not that Kevin is fat and I’m gorgeous (well, okay, Kevin isn’t fat), but you get my drift. It’s the only time when he becomes a real Guy’s Guy, and I turn into some nagging, insipid woman who wishes we could spend our home time more productively.
It’s not that I haven’t tried to get into watching into football. It’s just that I don’t understand it and have to stop and ask questions and offer comments. For example:
Things I Have Said/Asked While Watching Football With Kevin
What’s up with all the truck commercials?
Has anyone ever died playing football?
Why do the refs wear black and white instead of something more lively?
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if the coaches wore football helmets too, just to show their support for the team?
So there’s second string and third string, but is there fourth string?
Can we put it on E! for just, like, five seconds?
I can’t even believe those women get paid to dance around like that. That’s not even real cheerleading.
Is it almost done?
I wonder if they’ve ever had a commercial for tampons during a football game. I think it’s sexist if they don’t.
Do you think guys from one team hang out with guys from another team after the game? Or do they hate each other too much?
How do they get the paint on the grass?
Why do some of the guys have little towels hanging in front of their crotches?
The answer Kevin gave me to that last one was, “So they can wave it around sometimes when they’re feeling sassy,” so you can see he’s not really helping my football education. At least he lets me bug him during the game.
But I suppose the bottom line is that part of being in a relationship is sacrificing what you want so the other person can have what they want once in a while. Which means that for me, I’ve got to put my credenza on hold until next weekend. And that’s fine.
However, I need to make something perfectly clear. Kevin, in case you’re reading this, the next time ladies’ figure skating is on the tube, you’re crazy if you think we’re going anywhere.