My kids reacted predictably. Big Cuter's "Damn right!" came just before his sister's dismissal of the woman's entire premise. Ignoring the fact pattern, she went to the heart of the matter. "She knew that about him and she's still with him? Whose issue is that??"
There, in a nutshell, is how I feel about Sundays.
I totally get it - the NFL garb and the special snack/seat on the couch/lucky towel clutched feverishly as the game does or does not go your way. The decibel level is the same, whether they're winning or losing. Only the intonations vary. Everything is analyzed, reviewed, considered and filed away in the brain-box which holds the other crucial pieces of a game played by others decorated with laundry that appeals to you. You care about it and I can respect passion.
Just don't ask me to share it. I learned enough to be a pleasant companion on the couch. I understand the basics and have some valid opinions every once in a while. But I really don't care. I loved the Bears in the early 1980's
but they were winning and delightfully naughty (remember when bad behavior meant wearing an unapproved head band?) and fun. I can usually cheer for the home team, but we've moved so much and I care so little that my enthusiasm is somewhat less than full-throated.
I like being able to straddle the divide. Sitting next to rabid fans is the perfect combination of being with the ones I love while not being disturbed by the ones I love. In my chair, typing to you, feeling their energy but only as background to the conversation you and I are having - it's pure heaven for me. Everyone is happy.
Hiking on Sundays in Marin, leaving after yoga from the World Gym parking lot, tooling up Mt. Tam with Ms. Nancy, I knew that the 49'ers were in good hands with my guys watching their every move. Right now, TBG is on the edge of his seat, clenching and unclenching his hands, willing the ball into the receiver's hands. I'm smiling at him, thinking loving thoughts, and he's totally oblivious of my delight.
And then the ball is tossed and caught and the runner escapes tackle after tackle, picks up his defenders, cuts left, nearly falls and then scampers the rest of the 52 yards to cross the goal line and fall flat on his face in the end zone. I sensed the extra energy and looked up in time to see almost the whole thing and by the end both of us were yelling and waving our arms in the air.
And now I'm back with you.
Compromise. A willingness to learn enough to be amused. Respect for the other's point of view. It works in our house.
(Should I be obvious and extend the analogy to Congress?)