I came home on Saturday afternoon after getting the best pedicure ever (I can make that statement because I’m pregnant and I’m fairly certain that ANY pedicure would be the best ever at this point) and found my husband sprawled across the couch, beer in hand with a football game on the TV.
Yes, that football. The American kind.
I took a deep breath. “Are you…
…watching football?,” I asked with every ounce of disbelief my newly pedicured body could muster.
“Yeah, UNR’s playing.”
It’s one of the things I love about him.
A long time ago, in a land where I was a young college student and didn’t know much about myself, I pretended to like sports for a guy. Don’t get me wrong, I can handle the occasional basketball or baseball game. I almost enjoy them. When I lived in Australia I loved going to footy games, but when it comes to football season I’m a bit of a black sheep in my family. I could frankly give a damn who is playing, winning, cheating, going to get the Heisman or playing in a bowl game.
And my wonderful husband felt the same. Until, our local university, my alma mater, got good and they won this game. The game that my husband begrudgingly watched with my father during Thanksgiving. My husband kind of got into it and now it would seem that he’s a fan. A fan! A football watching fan!
Isn’t that the beauty of relationships? When we’re with the right person we’re given the freedom to change, to grow, to suddenly like team sports.
Sigh…at least I don’t have to pretend to like it anymore. But I did cuddle up with him to watch the end of the
match game. And I may have liked it a little, itty bit. It may have been kind of exciting.