nick saban and other flaws

Last night I had a sad kind of revelation.

Neal and I were in bed with the TV on. Some crazy SEC game was in its final quarter. I checked the teams. Auburn was not one of them. So, I excused myself from having to feign concern over the game and I picked up my book.

In between the Did-You-See-That’s and Hold-On-Babe-Watch-This-Replay’s, I began to pick up on a pattern. It’s the pattern I’ll call Pretending to Care. I thought back to the most recent time this pattern really demonstrated itself.

 Let’s take, for example, last Friday’s game.  Auburn was playing an SEC team.  Not just any team—it was their all-time death-to-your-mother rival, Alabama. My husband does not curse, but his game T-shirts for Auburn-Alabama games do.  It goes deep, this rivalry. And way back.

 I’ve come to accept that it’s not really in my DNA to grasp the significance of SEC rivalries.

So, during this all-important game, I did several things. I went to the book store with my mother during the first and second quarters. I checked the score and fixed lunch during half-time. During the third quarter, my brother and I sat on the porch and talked about his plans after graduation.

And all the while there was this yelling. Whoops and hollers. Stomps and fists in the air. Those grunts and noises, they remind me to check in on the game. So I did. When I realized it was fourth quarter, I told my brother I had to go in to watch the next 23 painstaking minutes with my husband. He had no fellow fan with him, so I had to offer up what little care I had.

It was a good game. And I really did pay attention. I said things like,

Was that offsides? So, what, 5 yards?

Is that the special teams coach?

You really hate Nick Saban, don’t you.

We need a turnover real bad.  (my personal favorite)

An outsider, especially one from my brand of hippie California, would have been impressed. Or at least mildly fooled.

I’d love to confess that my football participation during that Auburn-Alabama game was the exception. That usually, I sit through the whole game, engaged and on the edge of my seat.

That I don’t fold the laundry,

 or blog, or clip my toenails,

or do the dishes or find any reason at all more important than the game.

At one point during our marriage, I thought I might change. I began to feel the tingling sensation of real football emotion. It was as if the neurons to the football lobe in my brain had been asleep all my life and the first signs of life began pulsing through. This possibility really excited me. I imagined myself, a Real Football Wife. Jersey on, kids dressed in orange and blue (although that does happen, anyway. Refer to the above mentioned Pretending to Care). I would faithfully sit next to my husband, light beer and reduced-fat Cheeze-Its in hand, with real appropriate body language corresponding with every Auburn success and failure. As a Real Football Wife, I’d even say things before my husband would. Educated, football-y things.

The neurons have since fallen back asleep. They don’t surge with life when the game is on, although they do host a sense of nostalgia.

Back in August, I made it my goal to watch every 1^st half of every Auburn game with Neal. I thought it might jumpstart some emotion, or at least not stress my marriage. Sadly, I’ve since diverted back to my default of Pretending to Care. The feminists among you (my hairdresser is one, I think all hairdressers are) may chide me for even trying to Pretend to Care. That a Real Football Wife is just another piece of machismo propaganda churned out by some good ol’ boys club.

For me, it’s not. I have no reason to conform to something I’m not, at least when it comes to anything-ESPN. There’s just a draw…an orbit-like pull when I pause and witness my husband’s passion for the game. It’s his childhood and his dreams, his family’s history and culture.

This draw keeps me setting goals, like watching the first half or saying something not-stupid. It keeps alive the ever-elusive fantasy of becoming a Real Football Wife. It keeps me thinking, at 10:49 on Saturday nights that I should try again next football season.

la mujer en el apron verde

Tienes identificacion, por favor?

Idalys handed me a card, and it wasn’t a license or a passport. I tried to disguise my excitement as I handled her proof of permission to legally reside in the U.S.  I thought it was a euphemism, or some kind of legend that had evolved over the ages. But last Saturday I came to realize that green cards really are green.

Idalys was from Tijuana, Mexico, the card told me. I quickly punched in her numbers into the computer, confirmed that she was indeed registered for her free Thanksgiving meal, and sent her to the lady in the green apron.

Except that I don’t know the word for apron in Spanish.

Idalys was one of thousands of homeless or lower-income families in the Tampa Bay area that would receive food from Metropolitan Ministries this holiday season. And I was one of hundreds of volunteers who would help the well-oiled machine of goodwill to do its thing.

Marcel told me he hadn’t eaten in two days.

Jeanette, with her platinum blonde hair and well-groomed nails, asked me how old I thought she was. I skirted around the question with flattering clichés.

61. Don’t I look good for 61?

I got to hear all about Jeanette’s weight-loss journey, philosophies on diet and exercise, and how to take a good license photo.

Louis, a tall, athletic-looking father, approached my station with his children and wife in tow. He handed me his registration form and his ID. I punched in Louis’ number and asked him whether they wanted chicken or turkey. I punched in Laquanda’s number and tried to make eye contact with her. With eyes diverted, she may have eked out a smile from the left corner of her mouth.  Still not sure about that.  I punched in the numbers of the two boys, asked their grades and we talked about 3^rd grade.

You’ve got FCAT coming up. You reading, right?

Yes, ma’am, Javonne politely replied.

And then that was it. Just four numbers. Louis, Laquanda, Javonne, Demetrius.  But what about the stroller? And the little girl on Laquanda’s hip?

Louis, are those your children also?

Yes, ma’am.

Louis explained to me that he couldn’t find their socials when he was registering his family for the Thanksgiving meal. So, without social security cards, they don’t count. I excused myself for a minute (masking one’s shock became a much-needed skill) to check with the volunteer supervisor. Was this truly the case?

I had a hard time when I returned to my station, wanting to apologize to Louis, but not wanting to paint this generous ministry as Uncle Scrooge. I thought back to my days teaching in the ghetto. My training with Ruby Payne told me how hard it was for those in the culture of poverty to adhere to middle-class codes of paper.

Louis graciously smiled and assured me he understood when I confirmed that we “couldn’t do anything” without his daughters’ socials. And then I sent Louis with his two official and two unofficial children on their way to the lady in the green apron.

Tabitha’s curly bobbed head barely made it over the work space of my station. When I looked up from the computer to greet her, I noticed a few tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. I set down her registration sheet and ID, and walked around the station to be near her. Nothing like comforting someone when there’s a splintery piece of plywood between the two of you.

I just get emotional about these things, Tabitha told me.

Well, do you need to talk to someone? Should I get someone for you?

No, I’m fine, she protested.

Tabitha blubbered something about a lady she just met in line that had battled cancer and was in remission. Something about her new friend’s courage. And to be honest, I was a little puzzled. I couldn’t figure exactly why Tabitha was emotional. I began punching in her numbers, having determined that she was Okay. Right about when I was supposed to usher her towards the green apron, Lady in Remission passed my station. Her frail frame was draped with a floral print dress.  Another flower laden scarf was piled atop her head. She seemed to move in slow motion, but any discomfort was disguised by a flowy-like gracefulness.  She embraced Tabitha as if they were childhood friends and thanked her for her help.

And off went the two. Both in need. And yet not too consumed with self to be unmoved by the other.

I just get emotional about these things.

13 Reasons to Run a Half-Marathon

1. i'm 27

2. i'm not pregnant (although the rumor was floating through my neighborhood. it's always fun to be asked. if i had some cajones, i'd really mess with the are-you-pregnant Askers. but i don't.)

3. i've never done anything really physically competitive. i danced in high school, but never went en pointe. i trained with cross country over the summer, but didn't join for the season. never played team sports. my only trophy was for placing 3rd in a public speaking contest. The Giving Tree. it would have moved you too.

4. the race is local, the gasparilla half marathon, so there's no extra cost with gas or hotel.

5. i've been coveting a slick pair of sports sunglasses and a digital sports watch. i'd look for real then.

6. i'm going to use this race as an excuse to raise money for blood:water mission, an organization that fights AIDS in Africa by building wells. 6 of my friends have joined me.

7. rebecca from The Biggest Loser told me I could do it.

8. ripped calves and huge quads are sexy.

9. considering running in a skort. what do you think?

10. i want one of those super proud pics of me at the finish line holding my amazing son, Carter. he plans to run races with me later, he's told me in more or less words.

11. a full marathon scares me. really scares me.

12. i like the runner's sock tan. especially when i wear flip-flops.

13. if i had a bucket list, running a half marathon would be on it.