I had a couple of options. The first stripped Super Bowl down to a Beyonce concert. My husband imagined my friends and I swinging pillows at each other, dressed in pink printed flannel pajamas. According to him, we would giggle, tickle each other, and jump on a bed until we tuckered ourselves out. The second option put me at a bar clutching to my club soda, surrounded by umbrella drinks and beers.
He vetoed both options which is interesting since I DID NOT INVITE HIM. I was supposed to go my way, and he was supposed to go his. We would meet up again later and discuss the highlights of the Super Bowl. Instead he wanted us to do super bowl 2013 – couple style. Sigh. I saw the possibilities of claiming Super Bowl as number 18 on the list of 100 dwindling away. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He wore his favorite cowboy boots and I put on a little eye makeup. My shoes weren’t heeled but they were cute. Of course, thirty miles after we get in the car he mentions he has to stop at his job in Columbia, MD. Sigh. He was only going to be an hour. The warehouse smelled stale and matched the sad women sitting in the small office. They looked as if greeting me pained them. I didn’t take it personal. Doing much of anything besides sitting in the ratty office chairs must have overwhelmed them.
Three hours later I tapped my foot on the matted commercial carpeting. We were going to miss the halftime show. Sigh. He gave the signal and I barely grabbed my coat before I made a beeline for the front door. I love my mother-in-law but, no, I am not going to her house to catch the second half, even if it is right around the corner. Your mother’s house is a Venus flytrap of pleasantries, and stories about the 1990s that is like kryptonite for this woman who has to get an early start on Monday. Let’s just go home.
Thanks to my husband’s maniac driving we didn’t miss Beyonce. He is BANNED, however, from participating in any of the 100 unless he drives himself to the event :-(