But where was Tim Riggins?

I was going to do a meaningful, heartfelt post about Tibs’ arrival in America and adoption and all that jazz, but the Super Bowl was last night, and you know, priorities.

It should not surprise you that I am not a football fan. Despite having spent every fall weekend of my youth at our local college, playing under the bleachers at football games, I absorbed nothing, because, in case you weren’t paying attention, I was playing under the bleachers. Then, I was a teenage girl and I went to a public school with a hideous football team and a private school that didn’t have a football team at all.  And then, I was in college at a very artsy school with no football team, and then I was in England and various other international places and my husband was English and not particularly invested in the whole football scene, so…

I know some things about football, however. Tom Brady is good. He is also worshiped and adored by everyone in New England. To my brother, there’s Tom, then God, then Jesus, then everybody else. Maybe not even God and Jesus. Maybe Tom is God and Jesus. Also, there are two Mannings and people hate that guy who keeps retiring and then coming back. Tim Tebow loves Jesus. And a touchdown is worth 6 points, or seven if you get the kick afterward.

So you can imagine what it’s like watching football with me. It went a little something like this: “Who is that guy? What’s up with his hair? It’s not attractive.” “Yikes! Look at that guy! Deliverance!” “That is a big dude.” “What’s happening?” “Is this good?”  “Oh good! They’re right at the end of the field, so they can score now! What? They have to run all the way to the other end?” “Football is stupid.” “I’m booooooooooored.” “Football is stooooooooopid.” My friend Seamus wants to start a sports network with various commentators, like one expert and one gay man and one woman who doesn’t know about the sport and so on, and I think I am perfect for the dumbass woman.

Finally, Bucket turned to me, totally exasperated, and said, “How can you know nothing about football?” Apparently, he doesn’t know that it’s kind of a point of pride for me to have made it to 35 without knowing anything about it. And don’t feel badly for him: I learned the rules of CRICKET for him, and that shit lasts for five days.

But I digress. I wanted the Patriots to win, if only because I like my dad and brother and various other men in my life and wanted them to keep breathing. I started to get a bad feeling in the early part of the fourth quarter, and when a football ignoramus like me gets a bad feeling, it ain’t good. I kept hoping they were going to pull it off, and started getting really stressed out when they didn’t. Apparently, Perfect Perfect Tom (who looks disturbingly like the love child of my brother and cousin Matt, which is creepy on many levels) screwed up the passes, or it’s Welker’s fault for dropping the pass (our next door neighbor in the summer named his dog Welker. I wonder if that dog has a new name today). In any event, something bad happened and the Patriots lost and I had to email my brother to see if he was still breathing this morning. He and my father blame Gisele. Or Bridget Moynahan. But not Perfect Perfect Tom/brother-cousin love child.

As for Madonna, I have only seen one other halftime show, and that was the Justin Timberlake/Janet Jackson fiasco (when I told Bucket and my sister I saw a boob and they told me I was nuts. WHO’S NUTS NOW, SUCKERS?). Full disclosure: I loathe Madonna as a person (fake British accent when married to an Englishman, repeated illegal adoptions), but loved her music when I was a little girl. I thought she did remarkably well, considering she’s 400 years old, but my friend Leah spent the whole time worried about her ankles. But really? What with the pelvic squat thrusts? And a song called LUV Madonna? And did everyone really need to have Ms on their clothes? And what the hell does Like a Prayer have to do with world peace?

I watched it again with Tibs and Noodle this afternoon, and in retrospect, her dancing sucked and I’m 100% sure she was lip synching. She just pissed me off with that showoff move during “I’m Sexy and I Know It” when she was doing pushups. The backup dancers were amazing, and so was that weirdo on the tightrope (how is that not unbearably painful for a dude?). The kids liked the LMFAO, but I think Tibs was disturbed with the “LUV Madonna” bit, which makes me love him even more. I give the set designers and the guys who put it all together an A+.

With all that said, I will say that I love Friday Night Lights, a football show that has only the tiniest bit to do with football, which is why I could watch. I also watched because the guy who played Tim Riggins is beautiful (and the best part of the Super Bowl were the previews for two movies with him in them). From now on, I think I am going to stick with Tim Riggins football and nothing else, for the sake of humanity.

Oh, and the Giants suck (for beating the Patriots, because obviously they don’t suck as a team. Duh).

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Oh God, the pain

I’ve been going to the gym for a few months now, since I reinstated my membership after Tibs went to school. (No day care for kids over 6 = no gym for me in the summer.) I couldn’t go in September and October, because I had a gimpy knee. I had said knee MRI’d, and the doctor told me there was a huge bone chunk stuck in there, but I should ride a bike to make it feel better.

So I start riding the old upright bike in my super fancy gym that costs $47357327 to even consider joining. I’m riding, and I feel like I’m going really fast. The bike tells me I’m doing 12 miles in about 35 minutes. I think that’s pretty impressive, and then I come home and tell Bucket. He says that’s REALLY impressive, and that I’m doing about 25 miles an hour.

25 miles an hour sounds suspicious, so I start looking into it. Sure enough, that’s racing speed. I am reluctant to let go of the idea that I am the new Lance Armstrong, however, so I don’t question it too much. After all, I have thighs like tree trunks, so shouldn’t I be able to ride a bike wicked super fast?

A few weeks ago, some old lady was on the bike I usually ride. (Yes, the only people that ride the bike at my gym are me and 400-year-old women. What’s your point?) I was forced to find a bike around the corner, far from the big TV screens. There was a shiny new one, with screen attached. I hopped on and was most distressed to find that it was broken! It said I was only biking at 14 miles an hour! I mean, OBVIOUSLY there is something wrong with it. I had clearly been biking SO fast that it just couldn’t keep up.

I didn’t want to consider the fact that I wasn’t capable of biking from here to Manhattan in the blink of an eye, so I stayed away from the shiny broken bike from then on. The old, highly accurate bike still said I was riding at the speed of light and burning millions of calories, so I stuck with it.

Today, another decrepit woman was on my regular bike. I went back to the shiny one. It’s still broken. Apparently, I only went 8 miles in 40 minutes.

It must be wrong. I can barely walk right now. I’m sure that has nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t been to the gym in two weeks and everything to do with the fact that I biked so fast and so far that my legs are crumpling beneath me from exhaustion. Yeah, that.