Like most women on the planet, I dreamed that I would one day find the perfect man. Someone who would not mind me occasionally bringing home a stray dog or cat. A man who could watch Monty Python's Holy Grail repeatedly and would still have a beverage shoot out his nose when the Frenchman says, "I fart in your general direction." And, most importantly, I longed for a man who could spend many a Sunday afternoon lying on the couch watching football with me. Honestly, I thought that the last requirement on my list would be the easiest to fulfill. I mean, it's every guy's dream to have a girl that likes football, right? Not every guy's dream, I suppose. But, the chances were greater that I would find a man who appreciates my love of football than one that thinks my cooking is remotely edible.

Well, as luck would have it, I did find my dream guy. Grazing in a sea of impeccably dressed people, I found him in his indigenous environment: the art museum. He was displaying his original artwork, oil paintings of various people and things. I thought he was brilliant and talented. He swept me off my feet from the moment I met him. He was kind, funny, intelligent—almost everything I wanted in a man. But, sadly, he didn't care so much for watching large men in spandex beat the crap out of each other for possession of a ball. I was devastated. How could someone so perfect be so horribly flawed? He couldn't relate to such barbaric activity involving testosterone and sweat.

He's an artist.

Don't get me wrong. His amazing ability is one of the many things that made me fall in love with him. But, would it really kill him to macho it up one day out of the week? (Okay, maybe two days, if you include Monday night football. Possibly three, if you count the games on Thursday or Saturday.) Of all the straight men out there (and in the art world, the field narrows considerably), it would be my luck to fall in love with the only one who has no interest in the sport.

Despite this irreparable defect, I decided to date him anyway. Now, a year later, my friends say we're like the bizarro-world couple. I imagined my honeymoon to be a trip to the Superbowl; he wants to go to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. Not that I would mind going to Paris, but if I had Superbowl tickets?!? There's no question. The Louvre isn't going anywhere and the Mona Lisa has been around for thousands of years, but how often could you land two tickets to the biggest game of the year?