To The Boyfriend Who Forgets I Exist Once Football Season Starts

Dear Boyfriend,

This madness has gone on for far too long.

It’s not that I don’t get it. I watched Friday Night Lights – I’m fully aware of how emotional football can get…if you’re only following one team.

It’s not like that for you. For you, it’s an obsession that rivals my incessant Facebook-checking. At least when I’m on Facebook I look at you every once in a while.

Come August, I start to see the talons of Football season creeping up your back, placing its bony hand on your shoulder. I’ve got him now it seems to whisper. Nothing you can do about it.

And it’s right, there really isn’t. It seems that between high school, college, pro, and (gasp) fantasy football, you’re busier than a mosquito at a nudist colony.

It’s not so much the fact that you’re a man in demand, it’s that even when you’re here, you’re gone. I could wave a hand in front of your face and you won’t notice. Poof. Finished! Out to lunch. It’s about The Game and The Game only, for the better part of the next five months.

Sometimes I think you’ve snapped out of it, that you’ve realized it’s JUST a game and I am, in fact, a woman sitting in your general vicinity. You gaze over with glazed eyes and say, “Babe, will you grab me a beer?”

It’s just the commercial break. Le Sigh.

Sometimes I attempt to get into it, in the hopes that one day the clouds will part and I’ll finally understand football enough to like it. I’ll then develop my own obsession to make you jealous. No matter how often you explain it, though – I get distracted by all of the hot men in tight pants running around and I forget what you taught me. Balls.

At least when we’re staying in I can busy myself with other things, but when we go to a bar, you totally space as well – so then it’s just like I’m alone at a bar. Suddenly I went from “having a lovely afternoon” to “ having a drinking problem”.

And then there are the mood swings. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, if, God forbid, one of your teams should lose.

The game’s finally over and you’re a mopey, irritable mess. You can’t even blame it on hormones.

You won’t shut up about it for at least an hour afterward, and it’s not even a real-life event. The worst part of it is, there’s nothing I can say other than, “Oh man. Maybe next time!”

I could make some sh*t up like Yeah, that ref was a total d*ck, and Henderson should go back to the minors or whatever, but I’d really only be amusing myself.

I put in long, hard hours waiting for you to return to the land of the living. Can’t you snap out of it so we can go out? Otherwise i may just take myself out on a date. I deserve a good time.

I think the best thing for me to do is to leave a wax replica of me next to you for a few months while I actually enjoy the fall season. Hit me up around Groundhog Day- at least there will be people to talk to at one of the Superbowl parties.

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Penny Smith

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