Monday, October 11, 2010


{Photo from here}

Yesterday, in baseball talk, was game 3. Or, the last opportunity to come THIS close to taking a time machine back to the wonderful year of 1995. Oh, what a wonderful year it was, that 1995. Ah yes, to be 12 years old again and having your main mode of transportation be a bike with a large pink banana seat. Those, as they say, were the days.

But alas, it did not happen. Not even a Cuban Missle on the Launching Pad could save the Redlegs from hopping into a time machine. But that's OK. At least we were able to put our mystery tickets to good use, after all that waiting in a virtual waiting room I did for last night's game. I didn't attend said game, though I did sit patiently in the waiting room, virtually speaking. Without a paper gown and the promise of cold metal instruments invading my body. Phew.

The funny thing about this game is that my husband did attend the game. Which was a two-hour drive. And began at 8:00 p.m. EST. And meant he didn't get home until 1:30 a.m. And the dog barked like a strange man was intruding our home when he arrived. OK, maybe I cared about that. That was loud. And potentially gave me a coronary.

But here's the thing about me: I don't care about things like this. I'm not the wife who gets upset that my husband left me alone all day. You know, because the 5 hours he spent conjuring up a defensive strategy for this week's football game wasn't "together time." It was him watching and re-watching football games and making funny diagrams with x's and o's and me catching up on the latest episodes of 48 Hours Mystery, Dateline and shoving my face with candy corn. (There are only a few weeks remaining of mass availability of this stuff, I need to eat as much as humanly possible, OK??)

So, by the time he finished up the defense (which he proudly held above his head like Simba from Lion King and proclaimed they were going to win) it was time for him to depart for game 3. And I wasn't bothered. Because every good football widow knows that football season is time to sit on the couch, eat candy corn and not having anyone judge you for eating candy corn (and almonds, OK?) for dinner. Because that's what I did. Oh, and green tea. And some crackers. I'm a grazer, what can I say?

But then something funny happened: he said thank you. Thank you? For what? For the fact that taking the dog for a walk was the only productive thing I did yesterday? For OD-ing on coffee and murder mystery shows that cause me to be paranoid about people giving me the side eye in public places? For trying to find the matches to all of your socks piled up in a sock pile in the laundry room next to the un-intentional pile of black Labrador hair?

No, for letting him go to game 3. I quickly reminded him that I'm not that wife. I'm not the wife that you have to ask for permission to go somewhere with your friends. I'm not the wife that makes you feel guilty for leaving and then coming home at 1:30 a.m. so the loud dog barking wakes me up from my slumber. No, that's not me. I'm the wife who hates to see you go, but loves to know that she can eat candy corn (and almonds) for dinner and continue with a judgement-free existence. Seems like an even trade to me.

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