‘Tis the day after Christmas, and Scott and I are sitting in our recliners, watching the esteemed Foster Farms Bowl game; he, because Nebraska is playing and it’s a high holy day for him, and I, because my back decided to start being an jerkturd about an hour ago, and sitting here with this pillow behind me seems to be about all I feel like doing. I don’t care about football in the least, but Scott’s here, and the dogs are here, and I can see the Christmas tree I’ll have take take down in a few days, and in the name of familial togetherness and a deep disinterest in moving, here I stay.
Scott tries to get me to care, particularly about the generally egregious officiating, and the seemingly universal and unfounded disdain by the officials for Nebraska athletes (in all sports, mind you,) going back to the days when Scott was a wee Husker. He rewinds multiple times to show me the latest referee travesty, and I try very hard to be at least sort of interested, because he’s clearly upset, and I hate my honey to be upset. At a minimum, I contribute several ideas as to how, through collective action, the players could look out for themselves and their physical safety, because that’s the kind of thoughtful communist I am. Because while I don’t care about football, I have a passing interest in young men not crippling their bodies and minds for the entertainment of couch potatoes and enrichment of billionaires.
“You ready for cake?” I ask, referring to the leftovers of the Jello poke cake my mom contributed to Christmas dinner yesterday.
“Absolutely!” he says.
So I go to the kitchen, serve up the cake, and we sit back down with our cake and football. I’m not 3 bites into mine when I have an allergy attack wherein I threaten to cough my cake off the plate and right into my lap. I get up, put the cake on the counter (because we have dogs, and they cannot be trusted. Not even a little bit.) And I toddle on back to the bathroom cabinet for my 4th dose of Benadryl today, my back complaining all the way there and all the way back, and I sit back down in my chair with a weary groan as if I’d just walked here from Alaska without stopping.
A moment later, I realize that my cake is still on the counter, and if I want it, I’m going to have to haul my keister out of my chair again. I am not pleased.
“I wish I was telekinetic. Then when I forget my cake until after I sit down, I could just levitate it over to me.”
“Well if you’re going to wish, why don’t you wish to not forget things you want to remember?”
“Uh, because then I wouldn’t have telekinesis! Duh!”