Tailgating: I don't think that means what you think it means.

The Agony of Defeat

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...life's just a game of inches. And so is football. -Any Given Sunday
It's the rare day that our sports columnist calls in sick, but I told him I had this week covered.
I could sense him cringing on the other end of the line, but I assured him I had actually attended this weekend's football game and had, in fact, already planned to write about it. He remains dubious. (As well he should.)
I have had many heated exchanges since then, relating to the absolute state of fury I've been experiencing, ever since the fourth quarter.
As my friend Lee noted, somebody, "audibled a pass play on the line because he thought there were eight in the box when in reality they were just in their standard 4-3," but he insists that it was good to be IN the game.
I disagreed.
And in response to my complaint that we should never have tried to run the clock out (and shut down our offense) with eight ETERNAL minutes to go, I received this insightful response: "the 3rd down you are referring to came with about 3:45 in the final quarter, when we needed one yard for a first down (which likely would have sealed the game — or come close). We passed, instead of running the ball."
But really, who am I kidding?
Most of my knowledge of football comes from cheerleading and dating, many many years ago.
I haven't dated an athlete since then because 1. to be blunt, they don't ask; and 2. I'd never (again) let an athlete see me naked. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to let a CPA see me naked most days.
I also don't really enjoy sporting events, because (as any former cheerleader will tell you), the view is just not the same unless you're on the sidelines.
When you can hear the breath leave their bodies on impact? Now that, my friends, is entertainment.

Acknowledging the fact that I'm not qualified to cover last weekend's activities from an athletic perspective — I can really only judge it on its merits as a date.
First off, there's "tailgating."
OK...Turns out THAT means something entirely different than I thought it did.
For the uninitiated, it's basically a picnic in a parking lot.
Which is fine (just call it that).

Don't get me wrong, the menu in my truck was superb. My date had spent days planning and executing it to perfection. It's just that I prefer to fast for at least 72 hours if I'm going to be in any situation that requires me to come within a mile of a Port-o-Potty.
But the biggest problem the game posed for me, naturally, was wardrobe.
I understood that the event was to be held outdoors, and that some walking would be involved, which would necessitate comfortable shoes.
I don't have a lot of those.
I rarely purchase footwear based on its ability to withstand mud, the elements, or an impromptu protest march (should one arise).
I do have excellent running shoes, but since I was not planning to A. run, or B. wear sweats (though I've since discovered that "track suits" are the outfit of choice at many stadiums), I thought (misguidedly) that they'd be out of place.
I finally settled on some supple riding boots (and for what they cost, they're certainly not going anywhere near a stable). 

The hike to the stadium was blessedly brief, followed by a moderate climb to our seats. Most of the time, I had my fellow sports fan's hand in a death grip, because I knew if he and I got separated and my cellphone died, I would still be there. Irreparably lost.
The problem is, he's twice my size (and in perfect shape), so this was no romantic stroll in the moonlight that I'm describing.
I'd say it was more like hopping onto a skateboard and grabbing the back of a semi until you're dragged to your inevitable, yet merciful, death.
At the top of the stairs, he solicitously stopped to ask, "can I get you anything?"
To which, I could barely gasp out, "fast-acting inhaler."
I was trying to catch my breath and walk off a charlie horse, but other than that, I was fine.
Then we get to our seats. If you could call them that.
They are actually numeric decals glued to an aluminum bench.
They are glued there with absolutely ZERO regard for this country's national epidemic of obesity.
The first half was, by anybody's standards, a yawn — affording me some much needed spare time to balance my checkbook; talk on the phone; and grab a few Zs, curled up in the pocket of his giant LL Bean rain jacket.
It also gave me time to contemplate a phenomenon I vaguely remember from psych class about "identification" and how impotency goes up (so to speak — because nothing else does) in towns with losing sports teams.
Apparently, when the team wilts, so does the citizenry.
It was around this point that I became suddenly interested in a victory.
By the beginning of the second quarter, I was in abject fear that nobody was gonna be dialin' zero on the pink telephone that night.
By halftime, I was visibly distressed.
Against all odds, we stayed.
I prayed... I grew increasingly impatient with the flaccid offense.
Then, miraculously, we rallied.
I grew hopeful. I was on my feet, screaming at the officials, just like a real fan (with admittedly more selfish motivation).
Then we choked.
I was despondent.
What would this mean for our post-game?
Fortunately, Mr. Impressive remained remarkably... sanguine about our defeat.
And I do mean ...remarkably.
Right up until we left for mass the next morning.
I'm not over-confident though.
I never thought I'd say this, but. Thank GOD for basketball season!
I just have to see if Prada makes a blue track suit (to match the pawprint I plan to paint on my face).

My Fake Husband

My Fake Husband

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Born with what my mother defined as an 'artistic temperament,' Gretchen floated from blossom to blossom in a blissful haze... You could tell Gretchen anything in strict confidence, knowing that five minutes later she would recall nothing but the play of shadows on your face.
-David Sedaris

I think the minimal interest I have in the institution of marriage might have something to do with the fact that I already have a perfectly good fake husband. (Not to be confused with an imaginary husband. I didn't invent him.)

On at least one occasion, he's told people that we had a fake wedding in the Bahamas (sort of a Mick Jagger-Jerry Hall thing), but everybody knows that's a joke, because I don't fly. (Also, because I'm smarter than the average model. Which maybe isn't saying much, because I'm also smarter than the average toaster. And that's probably a horrible example of bigotry on my part; I just hope I can withstand the vast loss of my supermodel readership.)
He and I finish each other's stories in public, like a real married couple. (OK, to be honest, I finish his, because he talks slow, and I get exasperated.) We (then) exchange dirty looks like a real married couple. We always have pre-arranged escape signals for leaving parties (the most common one being, "time to let the dogs out" - though I guess we'll be retiring that one after today). I pick out his clothes before we go out, and if I don't, he's an exceptional sport about changing if he's created an ensemble I don't like.
There are things he's good at, and there are things I'm good at - and they absolutely never overlap in any way.
I often describe him as "detached," for want of a better word, but all I really mean by that is that he occupies a different world than I do. He resides in some airy universe that I won't ever understand (and he won't remember), whereas I'm more earthbound and practical.

He happens to be extraordinarily attractive, but is completely oblivious to it - not because he can't process his own reflection in the mirror, but just as part of his general obliviousness to most things. He takes no notice of the trail of swooning servers (male and female) that litter the floor as we leave any restaurant — he just absentmindedly steps over them as he tries to remember which pocket he put his car keys in.
I can say —with great virtuousness — that I'm totally above any shallow interest in his looks. I just think of him like a great ocean view. Those sunsets are incredible the first few weeks — after that, you become immune. You might as well be looking out at the airshaft over an alley. Oddly, he knows I mean this as a compliment.

Last week he asked me, with a great deal of enthusiasm and excitement, "what are you going to be for Halloween?"
"Thirty six," was my thoroughly unimaginative answer. "Why?"
He, of course, had already picked out a costume, and ordered it online. From there, within 48 hours, he had half the city engaged in an email exchange wherein the merits of various superheroes and their sidekicks were debated, mercilessly, for hours on end.
He's going to Superman (he already has the glasses for it). I'm going to be... asleep.
We just don't go about life in the same way.
When we got home from a party last night, for example, I somehow wedged my heel in the slats of my porch steps.
If left up to him, I swear to God, I'd still be trapped there, and an intern would've been dispatched by now to bring me breakfast and a change of clothes.
At some point, he did pause, as he unlocked the front door, to wonder why my progress up the stairs had been impeded. But it's not like he formulated a plan to resolve it.
In fact, once I explained the situation, "my shoe is stuck," he responded with (and I'm not making this up), "hmmm. Is there something we can do here?"
Followed closely by, "why don't you just leave it?"
(He doesn't have much of a sense about what a nice pair of Jimmy Choos cost either.) 
When I commented, innocently, that I seem to shoulder the bulk of the problem-solving duties in our relationship, he answered back with a perfect impersonation of the usual sarcasm I constantly subject him to, "Oh, I'm sorry. I've been trained to listen to women bitch, not to respond. I thought you didn't want me to solve your problems, because you can do it yourself. That you just want me to 'listen,' and that it's not my job to 'fix anything.'"
And then he laughed and laughed, cracking himself up. He knows me too well sometimes.
This weekend, he's taking on the rare task of organizing a night out for everyone. Usually, I'm the social chair, but this time I'm staying out of it. I've explained to him that it's not as easy as it looks: "You have to get the tickets. There's transportation to consider. You have to get them fed... And so on." It's like  herding cats. Or two-year-olds. Really wily two-year-olds. He thinks he's up to it, but I predict an evening that includes a minimum of one trip to the emergency room and another to jail.
This is one of the rare columns I actually asked permission to write — and he gave me a blank check — saying, "I guess I'll have to trust you."
I don't think it's because he really does trust me. I think it's because he knows that whatever I write — even if it's upsetting —he'll have forgotten it before he even gets to the end of the page. His life is like Memento in that way.
I'll be sad when he eventually does get married — probably to some 20-year-old named Trixie who wants as many kids as he does — but I've already told him I plan to take him for everything he's worth in our fake divorce. Not to mention the dough I'll rack up in phony child support for our imaginary children.
Whoever lands him will be lucky indeed, because I will have already performed the vital functions of any first wife. He will arrive on her doorstep a model husband, with his spirit broken and his standards lowered.
And like all second wives, she'll take all my hard work for granted.

The Hard Way. OFF the Record.

The Hard Way

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The suspect chooses between doing things the hard way and doing things the easy way, and the scene ends with either gunfire or the gentlemanly application of handcuffs You're sometimes led to believe that this person is actually relieved, but I've never bought it. Though it probably has its moments, the average day spent in hiding is bound to beat the average day spent in prison. When it comes time to decide who gets the bottom bunk, I think anyone would agree that there's a lot to be said for doing things the hard way.
-David Sedaris
 
Y'know that saying about "be careful what you wish for you will surely get it?"
What does that mean anyway?
See, if I go to the trouble of wanting something, I usually try to pause (at least for a moment) and be grateful when I actually get it.
Take this weekend, for example.
As my newest flame pointed out to his friends at a party last week, "watch what you say, your life is an open book." I told him I didn't think he'd suffered too badly so far.
(Last week, for example, he got described as "impressive," and who's going to take offense at that? Ok, in fairness, I didn't exactly call him impressive, it was more of a simple anatomical acknowledgement used in poorly worded sushi similes about the unagi— but still, that's hardly the kind of thing anyone would think of as mean-spirited. And it's not like you could pick him out of a lineup based on that characterization. Not as long as he keeps his clothes on anyway. If his current career collapses, at least he has a promising future in adult films. So what.)
I'm not guilty of any sexual McCarthyism, because I never name names.
In fact, I really take pains NOT to invade anyone's privacy.
Like with one of my longtime pals (who does have a seriously sensitive job — but one that lends itself to reallllly good stories), I've told him he just has to tell me when something is Off the Record —because that's a seal I'd never violate. His argument is that everything should be assumed to be off the record, unless he tells me otherwise. My response is that everything is for public consumption, unless he tells me it isn't. He's also learned to clarify distinctions for me — like the fact that there are stories I can tell, I just can't write them. That's fair.
I make all kinds of exceptions, for all kinds of reasons (especially if I'm asked to).

This weekend, however, was not one of those times.
When finally, in the current relationship, I got a glimpse of HibbityDibbityVille.
We cruised right past Friendship Boulevard, where we had been temporarily stranded. I waved jauntily to the bored onlookers over in Marriageopolis.
The reviews are in, and I think everyone agreed it was a great night — which is not to be confused with "easy."
He's the tall, dark, and handsome laconic type. He's shy.  
He went through a painful divorce last year (she got half).  I went through a bad breakup this summer (I got less than half).
I'm not sure what it was about me that brought him out of relationship retirement, but once he chased me down, it's fair to say, the path was long and hard. There were many obstacles in my way.
I had to draw on every resource I'd ever gleaned from 12 years of Catholic school. Overcoming Reservations and Objections, Prom Night 101:
"We can stop anytime you feel uncomfortable."
"Nothing has to happen that you don't want to happen."
Fortunately, I stopped long before I got to, "We can do this the hard way or the easy way."
Or, "Stop crying. You're ruining it for me."
Because those are lines that can, deservedly, get you arrested.

The truth is, as cool and seductive as I wanted to play it, my game is rusty. (Not that I ever had much game, beyond a general goodnatured willingness to try anything, as long as no one got hurt and we didn't frighten the horses).  There was a time when I was comfortable and confident in this arena, but not lately. We were both skittish, and it's not at all like riding a bike.
OK, maybe it's a little like riding a bike, but my point is, you can lose all kinds of skills if you don't use them.
It was great. But it was also awkward. 
Can I talk now? Can I talk yet? Should I just shut up? Am I using my inside voice?
What passes for acceptable conversation? "Looks like rain?"
I could — in some strange way —hear the voice of our sports columnist in my head, "let's hear some chatter out there!!"
But that didn't seem right either.
And I guess not everybody appreciates a well-timed one-liner.
Tough room.
Also, "what am I supposed to do with my hands during this part?" What about the moments where he's busy, but I'm not? Maybe I should catch up on a little light reading? Or perhaps I should crochet? Do I remember how? Is it still knit one, pearl one?
Sometimes, it felt like I'd showed up for a test, and forgotten to take the class.
Then there's always the Aftermath that follows the afterglow.
I never knew how to deal with those moments at 25, and I'm not any better at it at 35. (I mean, 36.)
I guess it's the endorphins that make me want to be kind and reassuring and sometimes even (dare I admit this?) warm.
But those tendencies are always impeded by my steadfast horror that someone will confuse me with "That Girl."
You all know "That Girl."
The one who brings a U-Haul on the second date.
The one who's always writing out the guy's last name with a "Mrs." in front of it, just to, you know, try it out.
The thing is, I like the weather fine in HibbityDibbityVille.
In fact, I strongly prefer it to RelationshipLand.
It's a perfectly great place to hang out for an indefinite period until somebody gets their first chance to better-deal you.
All I want right now is a day pass. Not citizenship. Not even a passport.