If I added up the time I spend watching football, researching players, and writing weekly fantasy recaps for my league, it would probably be at least a part-time job.
Since arriving late to my last Giants’ game ended in such disaster, I decided on Friday to get to the game with plenty of time to spare. I told my boyfriend to meet me at AT&T park early so we could make the most of the fact that our seats were located in the fancy club level by sitting inside by the bar, sipping over-priced drinks, and watching the Sharks’ playoff game on TV.
He showed up right on time, but nonetheless, we had a problem right off the bat (I don’t even mean to make these stupid baseball puns, I promise). “YOUR JACKET IS GREEN!” I screeched as though he’d shown up wearing skinny jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, Ray Bans and an air of indifference.
“So?” he asked.
“WE’RE PLAYING THE A’S!!!!!”
This actually resulted in a legitimate four-minute fight, during which I insulted him for not understanding the importance of wearing team colors or, at the very least, neutral colors, but was eventually resolved by the purchase of an overpriced Giants’ hat outside the ballpark.
Once the Giants’ hat was firmly ensconced on his head, we made our way inside to eat pretzels with mustard, drink fancy drinks and watch some playoff hockey. But suddenly, with almost no warning whatsoever, our innocuous chitchat turned to our his favorite topic as of late: cohabitation.
You probably won’t be shocked to hear that I’m not much of a cohabitator. I like being alone. When my boyfriend and I want to spend time together, we totally can. But that doesn’t mean we have to spend ALL of our time together, right? Frankly, when I imagine my Sunday night with bad TV and even worse Chinese food, I don’t envision another human being next to me on the couch. Ever.
I’m oddly not totally opposed to the institution of marriage, but do feel strongly that if I do get married, I will have to have my own pied-a-terre to which I can escape one or twice a week. I rationalize that concept by telling the boyfriend it would be a place for me to write, but I’m pretty sure we both know that “write” in that instance means “watch ‘The Real Housewives’ and drink wine and eat cookies.”
Anyway, even though he seemed on board with my biggest rule for a successful marriage, and even though we’re super far away from the whole getting hitched thing, somehow this cohabitation topic keeps coming up. At a Giants’ game, nonetheless. (Is nothing sacred?)
And since you're dying to know, the conversation with something like this:
Him: Do you think you’ll ever want to cohabitate?
Me: I mean, I want to WANT to cohabitate.
Me: I just don’t.
Me: But I want to want to!
Him: I hope you realize that the boat’s going to leave the dock and if you have one foot on the boat and one foot on the dock, you’re going to get stuck in the drink.
Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about. What is getting stuck in the drink? What kind of drink is this? Vodka?
Him: You’re going to drown.
Me: Oh. [rolling my eyes] In vodka?!! [perks back up]
Him: You get that way every time we talk about cohabitating, you roll your eyes and you don’t even know that you’re doing it.
Me: [rolling my eyes] No I don’t. [beat] Shit. I just rolled my eyes didn’t I?
Me: Oh! The Sharks just scored!
On a separate note, sometime during the fourth inning, a woman with amazing bleached blond hair and fake fingernails sat down in front of us. In her hand, she held a plastic flute filled to the brim with champagne. And folded on the rim of that plastic flute? Her chewing gum. And what did she do when she swallowed her last sip of bubbly? I think we all know…
Scraped that shit off and popped it right back in her mouth.
Oh, and since this is a sports post: The Giants beat the A’s 2-1 in the 10th inning and went on to sweep the A’s in the series. And the Sharks beat Vancouver 4-3, but who cares because they were eliminated from the playoffs last night in a double OT loss.
And fine, come Sunday night, it was me, Chinese food, and my boyfriend on the couch next to me. And in his defense, he didn’t complain even once during the three hours of “Gossip Girl” I watched. Except to reiterate for the 15th time how much he hates Chuck. It certainly wasn’t the best Sunday night of my life, but it also wasn’t the worst. Plus, it is kind of nice to have someone to refill the wine.