Wednesday, February 8, 2017

My Sh*tty Super Bowl Sunday: Part 2

Did I mention that 60% of the people who live in my house have been sick for over a fortnight and are still sick now? Well they are. One good definition of feeling sorry for yourself would be to think that you are suffering more than the sick people in your house by virtue of having to be in the presence of their unrelenting sickness. On multiple occasions I've had to stop myself from asking an immediate family member who was in the middle of a coughing fit to show some courtesy and leave the room until they got their shit together (not my wife, just the kids . . . I'm shallow and unfeeling but I'm not insane). 

And so with my house still in a state of Dickensian* misery, it came to pass on Shitty Super Bowl Sunday Eve that I spent my day doing the following: (a) Sitting alone in my basement watching my beloved Terps gag away a home win against Purdue, arguably the most annoying and unattractive team in college basketball, (b) coaching my daughter's (a/k/a my healthy child) 4th-5th grade basketball team to a stirring 13-4 win that involved two ties (if you count 0-0) and two lead changes (if you count 2-0), and (c) going to the golf course at 4:00 p.m. on a 35 degree February day just to be somewhere that didn't sound like the field hospital from every war movie ever made.

"Honey! I'm home!"
The golf course was blissful, tranquil and serene. You could almost say that it was serenely tranquil in its blissfulness or tranquilly blissful in its serenity or blissfully serene in its tranquility. I walked nine holes in about an hour which you can do when you're only making pars and birdies (**Douche Alert**) and, as I hit the turn, I heard the siren's call of the back nine but I only had about 45 minutes of daylight left and I envisioned myself freezing to death and/or getting eaten by a wolf on the 15th fairway. After weighing the likelihood of one of those outcomes against what awaited me at home, I decided to call it a day and return to the set of Contagion.*

I honestly have no idea what happened the rest of Saturday night. I think I made spaghetti and meatballs, drank some cheap red wine and passed-out. Knowing that I had a huge Sunday on tap I may have simply switched-off. This is what starts to happen when you reach a certain age. At first you blame the blackouts on the booze. Next thing you know, you're sitting there on a Thursday trying to remember what happened on a dry uneventful Tuesday. Whatever. The whole point of this thing was supposed to be about Sunday anyway so let's put a lid on Part 2 and get on with it in Part 3 tomorrow.

Footnotes

* There's like a 50% chance I just used that word right . . . and only a 40% chance of that.

** If you want to see a movie where a big-name actor who you might hate in real life (based on her attempts to connect with common people despite her total detachment from common people) dies early and in horrific fashion, check-out Contagion.