As we all set aside our political differences for an evening to
hold hands and sing kumbaya watch the game, I thought I’d share my Super Bowl story. Because you were hoping that I would. Get a hanky. It’s a sad story.
My husband and I had been married a year and a half, but it was to be our first Super Bowl under the same roof. I was so very excited. It is practically a religious holiday, and I was going to make it special.
No other day of the year offers the same opportunity to stuff my pie hole with enormous quantities of high fat food. Guilt free. Something about watching the Big Game makes consuming more calories in a single meal than a collegiate power lifting team a-okay. Without the game, it’s just unbridled gluttony.
I know nothing about football, but I had a routine. I collected decadent recipes that included such non-foods as Velveeta. And Rotel. I shopped gleefully, not caring for one single minute that this vast pile of cholesterol and artificial colors was going to feed just me and my husband.
I was able to step out of my comfort zone for the love of the game. I watched ESPN, the news, searched through the Bible, and even broke down and bought a TV Guide to ascertain the scheduled time for tip-off. 7pm. I even picked “my” team. I always root for the underdog, though truthfully, I have yet to see Underdog actually take the field. But whatever.
I was so happy. Cheesy sausage dip simmering in the slow cooker, corn chips (name-brand, no less) waiting on the counter, pizza, hot cookies coming out of the oven. Hours of binge-eating and watching the Budweiser frogs with my new husband. Does life even get any better than that?
At 7pm, I turned the television on. I flipped through a few stations, but the game hadn’t started. Undaunted, I gave the “cheese” dip a stir to break up the cholesterol clots, loaded my plate, and took my spot on the couch.
7:10 My plate was nearly empty, but there was no game to be found. I checked the TV Guide again, wondering if I had gotten the time wrong, of it it was merely delayed. I fixed more food and waited.
7:20 The button on my jeans burst. Still no game. I flipped through the channels again, but more slowly this time. Perhaps I was only hitting the correct station at a commercial break. But the commercials weren’t that funny. I got a little more food. I no longer recall if my husband was even there.
7:30. I scraped the last of the Velveeta out of the slow cooker. No game. I finally did what any die-hard sports fan would do in this situation. I called my mom. She assured me that the game was being broadcast, as she was watching it herself, and “darn it if Underdog hadn’t just scored! Did you see that play?” I had not. And would not. As it turns out, the game was being aired on Fox. Our back-of-beyond mountain holler was hooked up to cable that boasted four different HBO’s and a Showtime. The only station we could not get. Was Fox.
I think I cried. Or threw up. Unbridled gluttony sometimes wins.