How do I know I am getting older? Allow me this fine anecdote about the course of the latter part of the evening this past Saturday.
Saturday is, of course, college football day. Thus, I had been watching it all day. First, I was at home watching tOSU barely eek out a near catastrophic-LukeFickellDestroyer win against a decent Toledo bunch. Friends of ours had already wanted us to come over to initially watch Ohio State, but we, instead, met up with them after for dinner (at a sports bar, of course.) They chatted, as did I occasionally about life, while I kept my eye on potential upsets with Nebraska, closely contested battles in Athens and Austin, and in Ann Arbor, where in the first quarter Notre Dame is beating Michigan like a Roman soldier on Jesus prompted me to text an equally passionate CFB friend that Michigan was going to lose by half a hundred.
On our way home, which is about an hour from our house, I had the volume low on ND-Mich keeping my eye on the score, while my girl chatted and dozed in the passenger side. The score had not changed since early in the second quarter, and I figured it was over, so I turned to my girl and enthusiastically stated, “Hey when we get home lets get really funky tonight, like animals,”
She was game. She is always game.
So, within minutes she was getting herself ready, and I was also getting myself ready. Yes children, when you are 40, as a man, you have to get yourself ready for sex. Appropriately, I find internet euro porn to be the best way to get myself ready, so the laptop had that while I had the ND-Mich game on mute on the TV. Ten minutes later, I was almost ready to start the festivities. Then Michigan scores on that crazy fumble to Denard. 24-14.
Shit. My instincts say I may have to watch this now. She will not be happy about this. Keep the porn window active for illusory purposes.
Allow me to preface all of this by saying that my girlfriend is like a cat that REALLY likes catnip, except her catnip is sex. Not only does she REALLY like catnip, she is the kind of cat that attacks your hand as your are providing the catnip, as if to say, “Hey Motherfucker I ain’t got time for your slow-ass serving pace. Dish that shit up now!” Hence, when you tell her she is getting catnip. . .she is expecting catnip.
Now, I am beginning to stall. I am acting like I am still into the porn. She is pretending to sleep on the chair-and-a-half while I continue to “get ready” which for all intents and purposes is losing its attractiveness very quickly. She comes over to lay with me on the couch hoping to illicit a response from me which to everyone’s dismay does not work. Her patience is at an end. Storming upstairs, she calls the dog to come with her, and I know at that point that I have failed. This is a situation I need to fix immediately in order to avoid further backlash from the soon to be she-demon transforming upstairs.
I reach for the remote. Michigan scores again, 21-24. Motherfucker. Now I HAVE to watch this. I can hear her stomping around upstairs.
Notre Dame drives, eats up valuable time, both Michigan’s and mine. . .and fumbles on first and goal. Michigan ball. I think she put on her cowboy boots and is carrying a 50 lb weight in her hand as hard as her footsteps are.
Michigan drives. Denard is lofting the ball up like a Spurrier coached Florida team from the late 90′s. Interception in the end zone. This game is absolutely insane. I am terrified to make any noise lest I rile the beast anymore. It sounds like she is beating the floor with a rubber mallet.
Notre Dame fails and punts back to Robinson and the insanity. The Wolverines get another set of ridiculous catches and score on a screen play that should have gone for about 3 yards. 28-24 Mich. Jesus, this game is taking forever, but its awesome. I may have to go to my Oriental lick master mode to save myself. It sounds like she has a bowling ball. We don’t bowl. Where the fuck did she get a bowling ball?
Okay, this one is over. There is no way Notre Dame can do anything in 1:05. They haven’t scored since, like 13:15 of the first quarter, I think. I am holding the remote in my hand getting ready to dash on upstairs with a fire extinguisher and a massive intent. Bam! Notre Dame scores. Somehow, Michigan forgets to protect the endzone when it was absolutely essential to protect the endzone. Something tells me the ghost of Greg Robinson called that defense. 31-28.
30 seconds to go. My college football instincts tell me to just fucking watch the last 30 seconds because well, that’s why college football rules. Another defensive phale and ND gives up sixtyhundredteen yards on a pass play when Michigan has no prayer. Another idiotic, no-chance jump ball goes Michigan’s way on what might be the best one yet. I finally scream out loud some random series of expletives prompting the angry people in the house to storm downstairs and randomly grab a shirt they did not really need.
I greet her with an enthusiastic,”Baby! Lets get it on!”
She responds with a cold, “No, you chose your college football. Why don’t you fuck IT?” Well played.
I turn all of it off with 2 seconds left with a trace of trepidation considering what has already transpired. Bounding upstairs for emphasis, I make up for my transgressions. I mean we go AT it. The beast is soothed.
Afterwards. . .let me tell you how awesome my girl is. Afterwards, we are watching the highlights on sportscenter because I have already told her why it took me so long, but I knew she had to see it with her own eyes.
She sees the highlights and says,”Holy shit, that was a good game. I wish I would have watched it live,”
I am forgiven.