Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Other Woman

And so it begins again. This time of year that my husband feels the need--the compulsion--to fill a void that I apparently can't fulfill. No amount of wheedling or crying or tantrum throwing deters him.

I fling myself in front of the door, yelling, "No, not again! I can't take it anymore!" To which he laughs, and coldly replies, "You knew this was part of the deal from the beginning."

Can our relationship withstand this "other woman" with her witchy ways? She brings him satisfaction that I can't hold a candle to. He thinks about her when she's not not around, and looks past me to get a better glimpse of her when she's there. He blatantly worships the ground she walks on.

But how can I compete with a pro?

Football player, that is.

Yes, people, it's football season again. And it's stealing my man away. For the entire season, unless I have stats written across my forehead, I stand no chance whatsoever of getting Joe's attention Saturday through Monday. Unless I slather myself with hot sauce and pretend to be a hot wing, I won't even be on the radar.

I've decided it's good cardio for Joe, though. He jumps up and fist pumps Jersey Shore-style whenever his team makes a play he likes. He jumps up and down like an angry gorilla with his mad face on for plays he doesn't like. He becomes a walking emoticon all season long.

True, it is a nice diversion from Fox News. For a while. However, usually by Monday nights I find the sound of the cheering, screaming, paint-clad crowds (turned up to maximum volume, of course) to be as annoying as the vuvuzelas during the World Cup. And yes, all of my soccer ( friends, the vuvuzelas are super annoying to the unindoctrinated. They sound like a hive of bees.

I do realize I'm in the minority here on all counts.
So, it seems if I'm going to see Joe at all this season, I'm going to having to get more comfortable with football. I'm going to have to agree to a menage a trois with Joe and football and I'm going to have to pretend to enjoy every last tawdry, beer-saturated, television-screaming minute of it.
For the sake of my marriage.

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