There are many things I have tried to suppress about myself, but one little peccadillo remains regardless of how hard I try to pretend it is not there. I wish I could play football. Like real football. I watch Rudy and I get choked up, wishing it were me flying down that field. I loved going to the football games in high school and not just to “walk the track” and try to flirt with all the non-football players. I just loved that energy. And I’m not even from Texas. In P.E. when we’d play flag football, I could almost always get to the quarterback’s flags before he threw the ball, and if I got the pass, I’d be off to the end zone. Like all the little guys, I dreamt of being “x” enough that I’d get to have my moment under the bright lights, and not just to pass out the water bottles. Too bad I was born a girl. But that didn’t stop me from dreaming.
So when I married a football-loving non-football playing guy, it was like two folks coming out of some athletic closet…a match made in heaven. As you might expect, we watch the Super Bowls – and not even just in hopes of catching a wardrobe malfunction. We watch it for all the same reasons that so many people sit on the edge of the couch and shout instructions at the television. Because we wish we were on that field as well.
And, it helps that Super Bowl parties always have such great food.
I actually can’t handle the “stress” of watching a full game…just give me the last quarter and I’m good. Plus, that gives me plenty of time to makes laps around the food table. Dear god, the Super Bowl is a whole lot like Thanksgiving…license to make and consume food you would never eat at any other time. Artichoke dip on baguettes, 7-layer Taco Dip, chips and salsa, the list goes on and on. I did manage to bring one of those pre-packaged trays of apple slices with caramel dip (because my kids will eat apples) but I have to admit that my plate bore much more evidence of the dips and chips than the carrot sticks.
Which means this morning reminded me of why I don’t normally eat like that. Wow, that was a big number on my bathroom scale. My hands are so puffy there is no way my wedding ring is going to go on any digit of my body. And forget jeans or any attire that doesn’t have an elastic waistband.
So like the Cardinals, today was a bit of a day of mourning. While those men are saddened by the loss of that gargantuan ring, I’m saddened by my gargantuan thighs. But like the Cards, there is always next year, right? So this morning, I hopped on my treadmill, cranked up that baby and attempted to sweat off a bit of all that salt and fat. A girl can always dream, right?