Day 180. It’s Sacrilege

I’m almost afraid to say this out loud for fear of the repercussions.  But I just feel I must.  Right here, right now, you’re looking (metaphorically speaking, of course) at the one human with access to a TV, and cable, who will NOT be watching the Super Bowl this Sunday.

No, your eyes are not playing tricks on you.  I did say I would NOT be watching.  I wanted to make sure you heard me.  Understood me clearly.  Which is why I used all capital letters.

I know it’s unAmerican.  Hell, it’s even unCanadian.  But it is what it is.

What can I say?  I grew up in unusual surroundings.  Ours was a non-football-watching household.  When it comes to sports my parents liked tennis, golf, baseball and basketball.  And hockey playoffs.

(sigh).  I hear you sighing.  Shaking your heads in disbelief.  Even pitying me.  Wishing you’d known sooner, so you could have removed me from that damaging environment.  Before it was too late.  Before it came to this.  I know.  I know.

Thank you.  I appreciate your concern.  But really, there’s no cause for alarm.

If it makes you feel any better, my parents certainly wouldn’t have cared if I’d wanted to watch football.  It’s not like they would have locked me in my room, or anything.  Or cut off my allowance.  Or forced me to eat lima beans.  They really were very easy-going people.  But I didn’t.  You know, care for football.  Guess it runs in the family.

So that was that.  Settled.  I was probably the only pre-pubescent girl who didn’t drool over football players.  Of the high school, college or professional variety. Shocking, but true.  Although I did date a guy who was a dead ringer for Joe Namath.  I mean, a dead ringer.

Seriously.  Wherever we went, he was always asked for autographs.  It was a hoot.  Once, I brought him, as my date, to a bar mitzvah.  We caused quite a stir.  He was mobbed.  Got much more attention than the bar mitzvah boy, in fact.  Women were cutting in on us, on the dance floor.  He couldn’t even go to the can, without someone stopping him.  Lucky all around he didn’t have a weak bladder.

Don, his name was.  Still is, I presume.  He was my one and only brush with fame.

You know, now that I think about it, I was probably also the only pre-pubescent girl who had no interest in shaking her ta ta’s, either.  Or is it twirling?  Whatever.  You know, becoming a cheerleader.  Just as well, because I tend to be uncoordinated; and I would probably have dropped the batons anyway.  Causing real mayhem on the field as one smiling, perky, blue-eyed blonde after another, tripped over them.

Can’t you just see it?  I can.  Very John Cleese, Peter Sellers or Monty Pythonesque, don’t you think?

Dare I say this?  I don’t even know who’s playing.  In this year’s Super Bowl.  Or where they’re playing.  I do know Beyonce is performing at the half time show.  Is that what it’s called?  If I remember, maybe I’ll tune in for her.  Don’t get your hopes up, though.  I’ll probably forget.  There’ll be re-running it forever anyway.  As for the main attraction, at least for us advertising types, the commercials, I’ll pass.  I’ll see them on the Internet another time.

Imagine if you could program your TiVo to ONLY record commercials.  Now I might be inclined to do that.

All right, then.  Surely there’s no doubt left in your minds.  There is not a huge pot of chilli being cooked at my place, as we speak.  Nor will there be.  No pigs in blankets, either.  My grocery cart will not be filled with chips and cheese doodles (do they still exist?), pretzels and dip.  Or all the fixings for nachos. Or frozen chicken fingers.  There’ll be no pizza deliveries to my place.  Do not, I repeat, do not look for me at the beer store.

In the ultimate act of defiance, I’ll be stocking up on green, leafy vegetables and tofu.  Fibre bars.  And cranberry juice.

And if I’m anywhere close to my flat screen on Sunday, I’ll be the one person, on the planet, watching Turner Classic Movies.  And it would be just my luck if they were showing Any Given Sunday.