It’s football season. It’s that time of the year where I don my Bill Bergey jersey and teeter totter between cheering excitedly and yelling at the tv dropping the f-bomb in our living room on Sunday afternoons. Kitty hides under the kitchen table because either way, I’m yelling.
I can already see how our afternoon plays out: Kosta will grumble over his laptop about NFLers wearing all of these pads and needing constant breaks. Kosta was born and raised in Australia. The land of pad-less, helmet-less men beating the crap out of each other non stop in Rugby and Australian Rules Football. Of course, he’s quick to point out how awesome all of the Aussies are at punting in NFL. I remind him he’s in America now. And that part of marrying me means rooting for the Eagles for life. Or at least putting up with me watching football.
I am now waving a piece of cheese and a beer in the air like a crazy conductor of an invisible orchestra and singing our fight song because we’ve scored a touchdown. So anyway, now that you’re in America you better suck it up and enjoy how fun it is to watch with me. And that’s when I get the crazy, I’m-not-sure-this-is-exactly-fun-look. But it’s my favorite time of year.