It’s Super Bowl Sunday, which means I’m nervous. I can’t stop pacing. It’s not even 11:00 A.M. and I’m already sweating. If the Ravens win, I’m going to cry. This must be what gambling addicts feel like, only instead of worrying about losing my kid’s college tuition, I’m afraid of what’s going to get shoved up my butt.
My wife and I, you see, we have this bet. It’s unholy. It’s my fault. I was trying to be funny. I didn’t know it’d be annual. Now I’ve turned this wonderful day into a horror show. I should be thinking about the snacks I could make, the cocktails I’ll consume. Should I stir something fancy? Something red for San Francisco?
But I don’t care. I only drink to numb myself. I won’t watch the commercials. I won’t chuckle at the little kid dressed as Darth Vader. I’ll just be wearing down the carpet around my coffee table.
Thankfully, only my wife and dog will witness my clammy disposition. We’re not having people over. It’s too much stress. I can’t pretend to be polite. I don’t want my friends to see me like this. Most would take too much glee in my misery. They’d taunt me. I already get enough of that from my wife.
Jess is still sleeping. She’s not even worried. We’ve done the butt thing with her on non-Super Bowl days. She’s fine with it. I’m not. I’m so so so not. It hurts. I make weird sniveling noises. I curl up and ask to be held.
Even if I win today, I won’t take any pleasure. I’ll just be thinking about next year.
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