Sometimes I look at my husband and wonder what brought us together in the first place. We are so different. But we keep at the business of kindling the flames. Most of our strategies for romance are unorthodox, and he and I both agree that this approach is by necessity. We seldom gather enough minutes to complete a conversation or to qualify as for "alone time."
As of late we've been bonding in the stands at our sons' football games. He calls for the refs to throw flags, and I try to figure out which guy has the ball. Up until the other day, it was working well.
But then, out of the blue, at our youngest son's middle school game, my beloved yells, "Yeah! That was a Clowney tackle!" In his excitement he turns to me and offers a palm for a presumed high-five, which I give for the sake of unity. And he asks me, "Did you see that? Did you see him blow up number 14?"
I saw a lot of things. I saw white jerseys and black jerseys. I saw some boys fall down. I saw a couple of coaches about to bust blood vessels. I saw a bird land on the goal post. I saw a lady walk by wearing an enormous hat. I saw a plastic bottle roll down the stadium steps. I saw the large man three rows in front of me hike his pants up to cover his crack that I saw before that.
I smiled at my husband, who accepted the gesture as indicative of our mutual agreement on what just happened.
But the man could not let it go. He said, "That was awesome. That was just like Clowney. Remember how Clowney did the same thing in the game against Michigan last year? Only, he forced the fumble?"
I remember so many things. I remember that Clowney's first name is Jadeveon. I remember that he plays for the South Carolina Gamecocks. I remember that we don't follow University of South Carolina football and that we agreed to share mutual dislike of USC and Coach Steve Spurrier. I remember what I wore to watch the UGA (our team) v. USC game. I remember that my middle son wore jersey number 7 last season. I remember the middle school coach who stomped his play sheet on the sidelines last fall. I remember some basic calculus after all these years since college. I remember the exact time each one of my children was born and how much each one weighed. I remember several songs from camp when I was a kid.
With all of this churning between my ears, now filled with my husband's elation and his invitation for me to join him in the revelry, I smile. We stand right next to each other, a million miles apart with our elbows touching. He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.
Us being so different, I wonder how all of this - marriage, kids, making the most of what the day gives us - came about. Fortunately, I don't think the strangeness of it ever crosses his mind. He accepts me as I am, blind, senile and sentimental.
As of late we've been bonding in the stands at our sons' football games. He calls for the refs to throw flags, and I try to figure out which guy has the ball. Up until the other day, it was working well.
But then, out of the blue, at our youngest son's middle school game, my beloved yells, "Yeah! That was a Clowney tackle!" In his excitement he turns to me and offers a palm for a presumed high-five, which I give for the sake of unity. And he asks me, "Did you see that? Did you see him blow up number 14?"
I saw a lot of things. I saw white jerseys and black jerseys. I saw some boys fall down. I saw a couple of coaches about to bust blood vessels. I saw a bird land on the goal post. I saw a lady walk by wearing an enormous hat. I saw a plastic bottle roll down the stadium steps. I saw the large man three rows in front of me hike his pants up to cover his crack that I saw before that.I smiled at my husband, who accepted the gesture as indicative of our mutual agreement on what just happened.
But the man could not let it go. He said, "That was awesome. That was just like Clowney. Remember how Clowney did the same thing in the game against Michigan last year? Only, he forced the fumble?"
I remember so many things. I remember that Clowney's first name is Jadeveon. I remember that he plays for the South Carolina Gamecocks. I remember that we don't follow University of South Carolina football and that we agreed to share mutual dislike of USC and Coach Steve Spurrier. I remember what I wore to watch the UGA (our team) v. USC game. I remember that my middle son wore jersey number 7 last season. I remember the middle school coach who stomped his play sheet on the sidelines last fall. I remember some basic calculus after all these years since college. I remember the exact time each one of my children was born and how much each one weighed. I remember several songs from camp when I was a kid.
With all of this churning between my ears, now filled with my husband's elation and his invitation for me to join him in the revelry, I smile. We stand right next to each other, a million miles apart with our elbows touching. He puts his arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze.
Us being so different, I wonder how all of this - marriage, kids, making the most of what the day gives us - came about. Fortunately, I don't think the strangeness of it ever crosses his mind. He accepts me as I am, blind, senile and sentimental.
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