Stupor Sunday

I woke this morning to the soft and comforting touch of a male forearm on mine. Maybe I had a bit too much wine, because I couldn't for the life of me remember anything about this man caressing my arm at six o'clock in the morning, but it sure felt nice, so I shimmied over to snuggle up (hoping maybe that would jog my memory).

As my legs flailed around looking for the rest of him so we could spoon, I thought for a moment I had picked up an amputee, until I opened my eyes to see the blackened nostrils of Manny the obese puggle. He flashed his rugged underbite, gazed back at me expectantly -- I am, after all, the lady with the food -- and then sneezed in my face. I took comfort in knowing I hadn't brought some stranger home. I guess. I closed my eyes and tried to trade in my morning stupor for a bit more peaceful slumber.

Today is the day when most Americans will extend their morning stupor through the afternoon and early evening, stuffing themselves with dip and chips and chili and pizza and chicken wings and beer while they watch a bunch of grown men jump all over each other. I still can't, for the life of me, figure out what role that funny shaped ball plays. At least the man I woke with this morning isn't fantasizing about football players. He may be drooling heavily, but that's just because it's almost time for breakfast.

While everybody else is watching the Superbowl, I will be sitting in an empty theatre with a bucket of popcorn and a large diet coke watching a movie. I might even treat myself to some gummi bears. I won't feel self-conscious, because anyone who happens to be in the theatre with me is no doubt as much of a loser as I am. But we'll see who's laughing later when everyone else is spending the night on the toilet and we are peacefully fast forwarding through the taped game to watch the half time show and the best commercials ever.

This year I'm at least a bit more tuned in than usual; I know which teams are not playing (the Jets and the Bears), and I even know where the game is being played. I vaguely recall something about some colorful bay in Wisconsin, but honestly, who cares about a bunch of cheeseheads?

Unable to fall back to sleep, I opened my eyes to find fat little Manny on his back, his four legs spread shamelessly toward the ceiling as he silently invited me to rub his belly. I obliged, and he farted. Is it too much to ask to just wake up with a man who will cook me breakfast and buy me jewelry? Oh well. At least Manny doesn't care about the Superbowl.