On sports and other things.

Dear Theoretical Kid,

Today I watched the Super Bowl by myself.  It was just as depressing as it sounds.  I came to the conclusion that most people don’t watch sports simply for the sake of watching sports.  They must do it as some sort of social bonding activity thing.  Not that the game wasn’t fascinating, but that I realized that it’s kind of lonely to cheer for a team when there’s no one there to cheer with you.  It’s kind of like going to see a movie at the theatre by yourself (something I have done many times).  As exciting as the movie may be, you get the feeling that there’s something wrong with you for doing something alone that is usually considered a group activity.

Or maybe that’s just me.

In any case, the result of what shall henceforth be known as (in my mind) the 2015 Super Bowl Fiasco is that it will never happen this way again.  I will never watch a game by myself again (except as research).  I will plan and connive and invite until my fingers bleed from the effort.  Dramatic I know, but it’s important to me that I’m not the lonely kid on the block.  I’ve been the solitary sort since I was a kid and I’m sick of it.  And that is why, when you come along, your mom will be known as the woman who throws the most kick-ass Super Bowl party EVER.  No joke.  Reasons: A) I want a posse of kick-ass friends to chill with B) no way are you going to grow up being embarrassed by how lame I am.  This self-improvement kick is for you, little Theoretical.

Love,

Theoretical Mom

P.S.  I resolve to move to an awesome place (haven’t decided where) before the next Super Bowl and find all of those kick-ass friends I talked about.  There are enough theoretical people here as it is.

What is a sport, that by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet?

This photo comes from Huffington Post? Maybe. I suck at sourcing stuff…

Dear Theoretical Kid,

Sometimes I like to pretend that the reason I don’t understand sports is that I’m British and I don’t have the time for such frivolous things.  But then I remember that I’m not British at all.  I’m just BBC impaired(a condition that arises when you grow up on a steady diet of British films instead of American ones).  The truth of the matter is that I don’t know anything about sports because neither my parents or my brothers were ever interested in sports.  My brothers did play basketball briefly in high school, but the rules were never explained to me (probably because I was too impatient to listen).  As I grew older, I had plenty of opportunities to attend my own high school’s sports events.  I declined however, because it always seemed like that was something that the popular kids did and I didn’t see myself in that group.  I was shy, okay?  I didn’t make friends all that easily.

Now I’m kind of regretting that because I don’t know if the correct terminology is “Super Bowl”, “Superbowl”, “super bowl”, “superbowl”, or “Sup Bo”.  That last one is meant to be said the same way a cool person would say “‘Sup, bro” but without the “r.”  Google has been unable to help me on that score and I didn’t feel comfortable asking my co-workers because I thought they might give me one of those You’re-Kidding-Right? looks.

In any case, I finally found the Super Bowl (?) website and they had this really handy looking tab labeled GUIDE.  I was really hoping that it would be a whole section containing information on how to watch the game like a regular person.  Unfortunately it was just a bunch of worthless info for all the people who are physically attending the game tomorrow (like how to get to the stadium, etc.).  So now I have a mini pizza and some ice cream for tomorrow.  I hope that’s appropriate food to eat during a football game.  I know that pizza is Italian and I should be eating hot dogs but, you know what?  I don’t actually like hot dogs very much.  They just taste cheap.  I’m sorry kid, but you’re growing up on bratwurst and kielbasa, or nothing at all.  I know you’ll feel deprived by that, but you’re just going to have to deal until you get a job and can buy your own food.  Until then, I rule the kitchen.

Love,

Theoretical Mom

P.S.  I can’t actually cook.

 

Hi, I’m Neurotic.

Found image through whatisneuroplasty.com (I have no idea if this is the original source).

Dear Theoretical Future Kid,

You’ll be pleased to hear right off the bat that your future mom (in theory) is a total nutcase.  Exhibit A: last night I burst into tears for no reason at all while I was sitting on my bed.  The result was that I instantly wondered if I might be a little bit crazy and that caused me to cry a little bit more.  And then I realized that I’m just hormonal because I’m going to start my period any day now and that I’m just the poster child for PMS.  (This is something that I already knew, but somehow I’m surprised by the fact once a month).

You know that show How I Met Your Mother and how it’s about this dude telling a story to his kids about his past?  (I know you know what I’m talking about because I’ve already decided that we’re totally going to have all night binge marathons when you get to be, say, ten or so).  Well this blog thing is more like me telling the future you (at this point you’re just a theory, sorry) all about what an idiot I am.  Because, well, I grew up thinking that my parents were perfect and that kind of really messed me up (talk about an inferiority complex).  So, to avoid that mistake, I plan to give you a blow-by-blow of what your (theoretical) mom was like in her twenties.  A basket-case, apparently.

Right now I’m a twenty-three year-old with a couple worthless years of community college education under her belt.  I work at a grocery store.  I’m officially the dumbest person I know.  Most moms wait until their kid is in high school to start pestering them about college and the importance of getting an education.  You’re either really fortunate or incredibly unlucky because you don’t even exist yet and I’m already obsessed with the thought that you get a first-rate education.  So, in order not to be a hypocrite, my first order of business will be to get the hell out of the little town that I live in and go back to college.  I’ll get a real degree.  I’ll hang the damn thing on the wall.  And you’re going to grow up using printed out pictures of graduate degrees as scrap paper to color on.

Love you,

Theoretical Mom

P.S.  I swear not to be a helicopter mom, I just don’t want you to have the same Early-Twenties-Idiot experience that I have.  Trust me, it doesn’t do anything for the self-esteem to have people coming through the check out line ask you what college you’re going to and not being able to answer them without cringing at your own foolishness.