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Monday, September 2, 2013

The Heartbreak of Not Caring

I have a problem. A serious problem.

No matter how hard I try to care about people chasing balls around fields, I can't.

I was trying to care at the USD V. UC Davis game on Saturday by educating myself.

"What's a first down?" I asked my husband.

"Are you serious?" he whispered.

I would nudge him, "Okay so now they have to act because it's third down, right? No more chances after this?" He would slap his forehead. Hard.

"Was that a home run?" I would ask.

"What's wrong with you?" his eyes would scream.

(That last one was mainly just to mess with him, but I do honestly feel clueless when I watch football.)

I would clap when all the other fans were clapping and Caleb would ask, "Do you know why you're clapping?" to which I would reply enthusiastically: "I have the Yote spirit!" and then mumble, "and everyone else is clapping ... so I'm clapping." 

I even tried out different whoops. I felt ... odd after each one but I kept doing it ... just desperately shopping for one that fit me. Nothing. 

When the multi-media people flashed the nifty logo that read, "CRANK it UP!" on the screen, I would attempt to "crank it up."

When the screen said, "Get on your feet and get loud!" I was up on my feet getting loud (as loud as I get anyway) with the best of 'em.

When the "Cha Cha Slide" rang out, "EV-REE-BODY-CLAP-YOUR-HANDS" and EVERYONE in the stadium, including newborn babies and elderlies, did what they were told, not unlike Pavlov's dog did at the ringing of the food bell, I clapped along too and watched in awe at how automatic it was for everyone. I'm certain that cues like these cause everyone to salivate in anticipation of some reward.  (In all fairness, the babies were most likely just teething, but everyone else--pure lab-rattery I tell you!)

I attempted a self pep talk: "You do have spirit, Jodie. You do! That last whoop was very close to suiting you. Keep going."

I even bought a USD t-shirt and put it on in the bathroom in favor of my favorite Amy Winehouse t-shirt. The new shirt is white. You can see my bra through it. I didn't realize this until AFTER the game though.

Leaving the stadium on Saturday, I just, once again admitted to myself: I don't give a lab rat's dingle about football ... or golf ... or basketball ... or anything that involves chasing and/or launching inanimate objects around a court or grass--real or synthetic.

I admire those of you who do. I wish I could. But I can't. And I don't.

However, I am not afraid to admit that I teared up when the marching band took the field pre-game, and I single-teared when they left at half-time.

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