If opposites attract then G and I should be like Paula Abdul and that freaky cartoon cat. Two steps forward, two steps back. We come together ‘cuz opposites attract. God, all valuable life lessons can be learned in the lyrics of the early 90s.
It is in our pastimes that our differences become abundantly polarized. His: Sports and Coors Light. Mine: Seeing Movies By Myself and Vitamin-Infused Water. I have to aim low with two babies. My hobbies can’t be distance knife throwing and hookah pipes shared with Costa Rican natives anymore.
Sports is truly the area that we fall on opposite teams (whoa, was that a sporting analogy? I dare say it was). I grew up in a family of athletes, helmed by a father who played professional baseball. That sounds cool to say, but what that means is that all of my memories involve bleacher seats and ball park hot dogs. It doesn’t take Electric Shock Therapy to deduce why I’m now a vegetarian. Then I had to go marry myself a college baseball player. Somewhere within me, buried deep under layers of cookie dough, there must be an innate pull toward men who can crack a ball with a bat. God, I hope it’s that and not men who chew Skoal and scratch their balls.
This difference over sports emerged quickly within our relationship when I repeatedly referred to the Super Bowl as the Super Fest in front of a room of stunned male onlookers. G was so horrified; He looked at me like I’d just told his friends that I was an adult bed wetter. I felt dumb enough; I could have done without the ‘I’m not sure who that is’ line he used the rest of the night. And situations like this have persisted over the years, coming to a head at the close of each and every sporting season.
G: Big night tonight. Championship game!
E: That was fast. I thought you were just watching opening night last night.
G: Jesus, this is BASKETBALL. Last night was BASEBALL.
E: I didn’t realize overlap was allowed.
G: Allowed?…What are you talking about?…Yes, it’s allowed. And it’s glorious. And the TV is mine tonight.
Okay, Wizard of Oz, like it ever isn’t…And then I tried to show him a funny You Tube clip during a time out, but my offer was met with the confusion and pity reserved for drunk people who give inappropriate speeches at weddings.
Finally, the night culminated in this spectacular display of patience and good will toward wives. I innocently passed in front of the television, gracefully and flitting like a little wood nypmh, sprinkling fairy powder and glitter in my path, when G growled, “Erin, stop walking in front of the TV. I can’t miss this game.” To which, I whispered in my sing-song fairy voice of gumdrops, “But I have to get the dirty dishes you’ve left piled here on the coffee table, my darling.” And then he said:
Then walk behind the couch.
I’ve included a photograph of our couch setup so you can see just how ghastly a suggestion this is.
The only housewife fitting through that space is Teri Hatcher and still with the aid of a shoehorn and a lot of petroleum jelly. This no man’s land is also the area where G’s dog, considered by most to be the Abominable Snowman, hibernates. Careful kids, she bites. Even if I were to wedge my swollen body into this crevice, I’d surely be disfigured by Maui. If I miraculously traversed her Valley of the Shadow of Death with non-fatal puncture wounds, I’d certainly fall to my death upon G’s collection of empty beer bottles that he ‘hides’ during sports games. Death by Coors Light shards is not how I plan to depart this plane.
No! You know what? I’m not walking behind the couch. The TV can walk behind me. That’s right, that’s what I said.
Man, Paula Abdul must have been hitting the pills even in the 90s. She was so ahead of her time.