There are certain moments, I must confess, when the shitty, immature, little girl part of me wants to complain about Football Night. ‘Why do we have to watch THIS,’ that hopeless tart moans. ‘Why isn’t he paying attention to ME, ME, ME? Like he does almost every other night of the week?’
This truly silly side of me will flounce back to her bedroom and flop into bed for an early night with a book, dreaming of the good old days when she would be out on the town on a Friday night.
Oh, the fool. That girl has forgotten the days of standing in line at the supermarket, holding her breath every time she gave the clerk her overused credit card. She just can’t seem to remember crying herself to sleep, grieving the loss of children she thought she’d never have.
And now, that silly little girl sometimes longs for the days when her life was more thrilling. For some reason, she can’t always seem to recall some of her more ‘exciting’ relationships, the ones that involved waiting for days on end for phone calls that never came and visiting the city jail.
Though watching football maybe isn’t the way she’d chosen to spend a Friday night, perhaps someone should remind this girl that her husband could be doing something really exciting this evening – he could be out gambling away the family finances to the point that we don’t know where our next bag of groceries will come from.
We could be spending the night enjoying the throbbing heart of the city with the kids in the back seat, hoping to score another bag of crack – THAT would certainly be exciting. So would stalking him, wondering if he was having an affair and guessing whether or not he’s already passed on a deadly sexually transmitted disease. Talk about a barrel of laughs!
Oh! And you know what would be REALLY exhilarating? I can’t imagine anything that would get my heart thumping like locking myself and my children in the bathroom, listening to him in a drunken rage outside the door – hopefully with a cricket bat or kitchen knife in my hand – wondering if my children could get to the neighbour’s house out the window before my beloved beat us all to death, or just me. Maybe he’d only leave us disfigured and broken. Fun fun fun!
All things considered, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that if my husband – who has worked a full week and then some at an honest job, providing for me and my children entirely on his own – if he wants to doze on the couch watching the footie, he is welcome to it.
And that silly little girl part of me can just suck it up.