Football.

I’ve been watching ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown for the last 2 hours.  The fact that it’s Sunday and there is something other than TLC’s Say Yes to the Dress Big Bliss on the screen tells you that I am clearly not in charge of the remote.  I wasn’t really paying attention at first, People.com was detailing how Justin Bieber rented out the Staples Center so he and Selena Gomez could watch Titanic, but then Mike Ditka compared the Eagles’ defense to the song, “Send in the Clowns,” and I perked up.  In the last 2 hours this is what I’ve learned about how to win a game of professional football: you need to score more points than the other team.  True, it was said in a multitude of different ways by a multitude of old white guys all wearing too much pancake make-up, but that was what it all boiled down to. Riveting.  I don’t know what was more unbelievable: that I spent 2 perfectly good Big Bliss hours watching this, or that these guys get paid. 

I tried explaining this to my boyfriend, but he said I was, “ruining his Sunday flow.”  If I’m being completely honest I don’t think it was so much my constant commentary as my need to explain in detail my love for both the song “Send in the Clowns,” and the musical it comes from, “A Little Night Music,” that ruined his flow.   It may also have had something to do with my impromptu performance of the song and its Reprise changing the tone of my voice to distinguish between Desiree and Fredrik (obviously).  I blame Mike Ditka. 

ESPN’s Sunday NFL Countdown taught me everything I need to know about winning a professional football game, and reinforced something I am constantly learning about men: they don’t like to talk.  Now, I’m not saying this applies to all men, but it is my experience, from my father, to my best male friend, to my boyfriend that when it comes to conversation they’d rather be doing just about anything else, and they employ a whole range of tactics to accomplish this goal. 

My dad employs the old bait and switch.   I’ll call home and for the first twenty seconds or so he listens and actively responds.   Then just as I’m about to tell him about my latest life plan to become the next millionaire matchmaker he hands me off to my mom, he even uses those words, “Well, let me hand you off to your mom,”  like talking to me is a relay and it is time for him to pass that baton.  My best male friend lives on the west coast and therefore has the luxury of talking to me mostly on gchat where he can, and does, use what I like to call the “OWR” or “one word response.”  Hey.  Fine.  Good.  No.  Really?  Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Wow.  Ok.  Later.  Sometimes he will type his response and forget to press send so minutes go by where I stare transfixed at the bottom right hand of my computer screen, the words, “Text has been entered” taunting me mercilessly while he grabs a beer and checks his fantasy football stats.  And my boyfriend just wears earplugs.  Seriously.  He’s wearing them now. 

I know they don’t mean any harm by it.  In my true hour of need they have all been there for me with insightful advice, shoulders to cry on, and handles of vodka (thanks dad).  And really if my boyfriend got drunk and sat me down at 2am to have a long, drawn out conversation about his life plan complete with emotional freak out about decisions he doesn’t have to even start thinking about making for another year I would have a few things to say.  The first being, “How dare you steal my signature move!” So I guess for now I'll just accept them all as the strong silent types, DVR Big Bliss, and call my girlfriends.

Arm Fat.

I went to the gym today to combat both my feeling of icky-ness and my fat arms.  The icky-ness was a result of a morning spent alternately lying on the couch watching HGTV and surfing the internet for my new $750,000 home.  The fat arms are a result of ending one too many nights eating hot fudge sundaes where I didn’t actually put the ice cream in a bowl but rather poured the hot fudge right into the carton and then sprinkled peanuts on top.  Fat arms aside I highly recommend this method as it cuts down on dishes, therefore cutting down on water usage and being good for the environment.  It’s probably the most delicious way I know of fighting global climate change and it makes me feel better about all the aerosol hairspray I used in college.

My true fat arm realization (Oprah would call it an “Ah ha!” moment but I prefer to think of it as a “Fuck you” moment) was when I was getting dressed for work a couple of days ago.  I had begun to notice a few weeks ago that my usually pretty tight and well weight trained arms had started to look a little less Sports Authority and a little more K-mart.  This could have something to do with the fact that the only thing I had been lifting lately were my grocery bags; full with equal amounts of Lean Cuisine meals and quarts of Neapolitan ice cream.  I’m a fan of jackets and was excited that it was chilly enough outside to wear one of my favorites, a short sleeve brown pleather number I bought at Forever 21 while I was living in South Korea.  Don’t knock shopping at Forever 21 until you’ve lived in South Korea and tried to find a clothing store that offers items without Hello Kitty on the front, and don’t knock pleather: it saves cows from being killed for clothing so they can be killed for their rightful purpose, steak.  I pulled the jacket on, checked myself out in the mirror, and decided (as I had with the other 4 outfits I had put on that morning) that it just wasn’t working.  Yes, all of my students that day were under the age of 10, but let’s be honest, kids are cruel.  In the third grade I listened to my mother when she suggested I wear a sequined leotard to the roller rink so it would, “sparkle under the lights,” and the pain I endured that day still lingers. 

I grabbed the bottom of the jacket and tugged ready to pull it off and replace it with something more tweenage chic.  It didn’t budge.  It was stuck.  On my arm fat.  I pulled again.  Nothing.  I danced in a circle while grunting and pulling on the jacket and managed to pull the shoulders of the jacket over the arms so the whole thing was hanging behind me inside out.  Then attempted to grab the collar and pull again while jumping up and down to give myself more leverage.  Five minutes of circle dancing, grunting, and jumping later I simultaneously pulled the jacket off and made it rain.  I threw the jacket on the ground where it lay crumbled like a pile of brown pleather road kill and shouted, “Fuck you!” at the top of my lungs..  That was my “fuck you,” moment, and the moment I realized that “When you can’t get your jacket off” needed to be added to the “pro” side of my current “Should I get a Roommate” list.  My most recent entry was on the “con” side and was titled “When you want to watch Glee in the nude.” 

Needless to say I got my act together and went to the gym to get back into strength training mode.  I also realized that the zippers on the arms of my jacket, which I normally leave open, were closed when the incident occurred which makes me feel a little better but does not excuse my current habit of trading dumbbells for dairy.  Strong is sexy, and it feels good to be back on track.