I was born in Philadelphia. And I don’t like like Trump-loving, football-deflating quarterbacks no matter how pretty they are. So hurray for the Super Bowl!
Richie and I watch it every year, mostly for the ads. We aren’t sports people (except for the Winter Olympics) though I have a fondness for basketball when the players have long hair (ah, Pistol Pete!), but we get sucked into the super bowl game every year, despite our determination to only watch the ads. I was expecting the Patriots to clobber the Eagles in the last minute. Ha ha ha.
But seventeen years ago my son ran headlong into a truck while riding too fast on a snowmobile. He was thirteen, and he flew twenty feet in the air, it knocked his helmet off, dislocated one hip and gave him a compound fracture of the other leg. He could have died so easily, and I’ll never forget sitting in the waiting area at the emergency room and numbly watching the Patriots win.
But after all that, and what felt worse in the intervening years, he’s good. He’s strong, he’s handling things. He made it. I don’t understand why some do and some don’t, and I expect I’m not supposed to understand it. But hurray for Tim and hurray for the Eagles and hurray to me who survived it all.
Anyone else hate football but watch the game anyway? I even looked up how to make potato skins (last year was the first time I did chicken wings).
Do you notice something missing from all this? Friends. We’re not that interested in drinking (though we have nothing against it) and sports don’t particularly matter, and we live in a very small town where we’ve always been out of the mainstream. So we have our little super bowl party alone and enjoy ourselves tremendously.
Friends are a difficult issue once you’re past fifty. Everyone’s already got their own circle, and changing isn’t easy. I have very mixed feelings about the whole thing – on the one hand, I enjoy people, I find them interesting. I love to talk with them, hear what’s going on, share things with them. But on the other, I need vast quantities of time alone. I was going to say I always did, even before I became a writer, but I kind of always was a writer. I need time to live in my head, with my stories.
I don’t worry about it any longer. I’m a little off-beat – a little colorful, a little different, a little over the top, and some people aren’t comfortable around me. (I do figure it’s a grave moral defect on their part but I forgive them – not enough people embrace their own fabulousness in this world and they’re uneasy around people who do).
So fuck ’em. I want you all to go out and embrace your fabulousness. The world needs it. We’ve had two impossibly shitty years – it’s time to make this year amazing, despite the evils in Washington. Do something fabulous! Wear something outrageous, put on bright red lipstick, a dashing scarf, and a smile and go out and greet the world. If the world won’t be fabulous we need to go out and make it so.
Live, my children!