It's been such a long time
I think I should be goin', yeah
And time doesn't wait for me,
it keeps on rollin' - "Long Time" by Tom Scholz
It seems like just a few weeks ago that football season started. All was fresh and new, the school year had just started. My wife, as is her custom, bid me farewell and went off to join her friends at the Gatsby Picnic. This yearly ritual clearly defines the line between those who wear the period-correct clothing of a bygone era and those who prefer their period-correct clothing to have numbers on them.
And so it went, for four and a half months. Weekends, Monday nights, and the occasional Thursday evening were consumed with the passion and fury generally reserved for more concrete pursuits. Along the way, my wife kept tabs on me, participating as a good and faithful sport, including managing her own fantasy football team, The Dancing Cavaliers, in our league. Her knowledge of the inner workings of professional football have grown over the years, but have yet to outweigh her interest in things Art Deco and art in general. She knows who Peyton Manning is, and she understands when things, as they did just three times this past season, don't go the Broncos' way. Her husband becomes gloomy and can be difficult to approach for a day or two. Scoring more points than any offense in the history of the NFL, kicking the longest field goal, and throwing the most touchdown passes ever were nice trophies to keep me involved while I waited for the inevitable: a return trip to the Super Bowl.
Last week, for the AFC Championship, my wife put on her orange socks and her Broncos' sweatshirt. She sat on the couch and watched with me. The whole game. The one that sent us to the Super Bowl. She took a very active role in the proceedings, pronouncing herself the "First Down Nazi," shouting at the TV, "No first down for you!" as Tom Brady and the Patriots made their late attempt to try and wrest the inevitable victory from the jaws of defeat. Hungry, hungry defeat. We had such a fun time that I almost felt bad about the last time I attended an Art Deco affair, and felt that I couldn't wait for it to be over.
Because it isn't over yet. We're getting together again this Sunday. There's a little matter of the Lombardi trophy to settle. And then we can go back to talking to each other about laundry and child rearing and fixing the furnace. Takin' my time, just movin' along.