I have this friend, who when he goes to a bar he almost always orders Blue Moon with extra orange. Almost is the key word here because at our local bar whenever he goes there, there is one bartender who as soon as he sees my friend walk in the door he pours him a Blue Moon with extra orange. Now there are times when my friend wants something else. But when a bartender treats you like the regular you are by pouring you your favorite beer even if it’s the last thing on earth you want at that given moment, all you can do is say, “Thanks, Pete.” Even if his name isn’t Pete.
Yes, there is a point to this story. I’m a Giants fan. For their past six games I’ve been watching them at home, alone, from the comfort of my 23 year-old chair (23 today! Happy Birthday, Chair.) And in case you haven’t noticed, my Giants have been winning. Winning big. In fact, in case you really are in a news blackout, or my mother-in-law, let me inform you that my beloved Giants are in the Super Bowl! YEAH!!
Great news, right? Yup. Except for one small thing. My wife, who used to watch football with me before we had kids and now has no memory of that time, is planning the menu for our private, little Super Bowl experience. See, she has assumed that since superstitious little me has watched the past six games at home that, since my beloved Giants are in the Super Bowl (have I mentioned that), I would want to watch the Super Bowl. At home. By myself.
But she is wrong. And I don’t know how to tell her. I mean, she is being really cute about it. Telling me she’s going to buy me chips and dip and peanut M&Ms. All my favorites. Even pigs in a blanket. And I love her for this especially since usually, at least for the last 15 years or so, she barely notices I exist. But…
…This is the Super Bowl for crying out loud! The Giants (yay!) vs. The arrogant New England Patriots! I don’t want to watch it alone. And by alone I mean just me and my wife. I want to be with my buddies. You know, guys who love football, who understand football, who scream with joy at a gruesome injury or with anger at a horrible call! I’m sorry, I need to be with a bunch of guys. And the guys I work with are all football fanatics.
So why don’t I just invite them here and kill two birds with one stone you are asking yourself? Simple. My wife has emphasized how unbelievably wonderful this will be to watch the Super Bowl, just me and her. Just the two of us. Me. And her.
And making matters even worse is the fact that Billy, the perrenial bachelor at work, is having a major Super Bowl bash at his man cave. Whatever you’re picturing, it’s even manlier, and better than that. I want to go almost as much as I want my Giants to win. But I can’t. Because to go to that party, no, to even ASK to go to that party is the same thing as telling my wife, “Oh sorry, I don’t love you, our marriage means nothing, I’d rather be with my buddies.” Of course it doesn’t mean that, but that’s how she’ll see it. Listen, would I love to watch the Super Bowl with my wife? Hell yes. As long as there are 15 beer guzzling, loud, obnoxious guys there as well.
I have exactly a week to come up with the most ingenious plan of my life. And I modestly tell you that I am good at this. But this one is going to be tough. My marriage is on the line. But so is my Super Bowl enjoyment. Both are very important to me. Any thoughts?