We Intercept This Marriage
Article by Kimberly Avery
With the swimming pools closing, the smell of pumpkin spice permeating the air as thick as bug fogger, and the school buses back stopping traffic everywhere, it's obvious that autumn is just around the corner. You can’t make small talk with anyone this time of year without them happily mentioning, “It seems like fall is in the air.”
I, however, am not as thrilled about the annual change of season. “Yes, fall is in the air,” I would answer. “Temperatures will be dropping, leavings will be dropping, and my husband's backside will be dropping onto our couch and not moving until January.”
You think I’m joking. But as long as I’ve known him, John has demonstrated one pig-skinned passion that lasts the entirety of the last five months out of the year.
To John, watching college football is as necessary as breathing, and no amount of smothering will keep him from it. Desperate to get his attention during a game, I once yelled, “FIRE!”
Not taking his eyes off the gridiron, he admonished, “Yelling ‘fire’ during football season is irresponsible and could put lives at risk, namely yours.”
I would even go so far as to say that this time of year, I could stand in front of the T.V. wearing nothing but Saran Wrap, and his only response would be, “Honey, I can’t see the score.” I know this with absolute certainty because all our children have the same birthday: they were all born exactly nine months after the last bowl game.
His routine in September is as predictable as the changing of the guard at Caesar’s Palace. After the miraculous birth of each year's college football season, he begins each Saturday planted in his recliner, showcasing the enthusiasm of an expectant father. With his jersey on, snacks in hand, and the insertion of his never-miss-a-moment I.V. and catheter, John is ready to participate in the largest living room pre-funk in the world, ESPN's “College Game Day.” He watches intently, noting all game start times and converting them to Eastern Standard Time. He tries to guess who will appear as the celebrity guest picker, this guest usually has the football I.Q. of mayonnaise. Regardless John then predicts that picker’s picks. He leans in, deciphering aloud and chuckling at the backdrop of not-so-clever signs crudely fashioned with discarded flattened pizza boxes and spray deodorant. The signs are being waved high in the air by college students so amped I can only assume their red Solo cups contain a rocket fuel cocktail of Adderall and Red Bull.
The show continues with even more football discussion, predictions, and debate, culminating in a behind-the-football story so heartbreaking and emotional it makes the Humane Society commercial staring at emaciated dogs seem downright cheery.
Once, as the show's closing montage rolled, I looked over to catch a tear running down John’s face and smearing his black eye paint.
Our gaze locked, and to my surprise, he suddenly turned the television off. Rising from his chair, he walked across the room and wrapped me in his arms.
Leaning in, he whispered tenderly, “Honey, this makes me think, we should name our next child Corso.”
edited by Rebekah Crozier