It's football season, and I really need your help. My boyfriend and I live in a one-bedroom apartment. He watches football from early Sunday until the wee hours of Tuesday. And that's just the NFL. I don't want to be one of those girls who won't "let" her boyfriend watch sports, but it's driving me fucking crazy. When the game is on, it's really loud, and there's nowhere else to go in the house (unless I sequester myself in the bedroom or the bathroom). Please don't tell me to find somewhere else to go or something else to do during football hours. I have limited time off from my job and I like to be at home.
He can't go to a sports bar because he really doesn't have any friends. Help save my relationship! I want to stuff a football square up his ass!
Not a Cheerleader!
Hello, fellow sports hater! I'm in a similar (though slightly less horrific) situation. I live in a railroad apartment (meaning no doors), but instead of televised sports, my man loves cartoons and watches them religiously—starting at about 8 a.m. every Saturday. Saturday! A day when most adults are sleeping off the night before, there he is, perched on the sofa in his Incredible Hulk underpants, a bowl of cereal in one hand, the remote in the other, watching intently as Ben 10 does whatever it is he does.
So I feel for you, sister. Lucky for me, cartoons are only a half hour long, and I can usually just roll over, jam the earplugs in, and sleep until he's done with two or three. Your situation—three straight days!—is far more dire.
The need to watch everything at top volume is a male-specific thing that I have never begun to fathom. I feel all Men Are From Mars saying this, but perhaps it's because it's so hard for them to listen in the first place (note I did not say hear) that they must have everything blared at sphincter-shaking levels to maintain their focus. There's only one answer for this, and that's wireless headphones. They're kind of pricey ($150 or so), but well worth it if you and the neighbors don't want to hear the third down replayed for the fourth time as a bunch of middle-aged men in ill-fitting blazers exclaim in amazement and analyze in great detail how well some overpaid chunky guy in padding has thrown a ball.
I mean, who cares? These players get paid a bazillion dollars a year to toss a ball around. At those prices, they should be plenty good at it. Der.
Coincidentally, a week or so prior to receiving your note, I got a press release from a dating Web site called True that had a few ideas for the football widow (there's even a term for your dilemma). One suggestion is that you learn the difference between "offense vs. defense." Yeah, because televised playground games are too complicated for the feeble female brain. These alleged relationship "experts" also demand that you pay attention to the game, "no matter what you're reading in book club that week or what sale is going on."
Feeling homicidal yet? I am. But I saved the best for last.
If you find you're too perplexed after trying to decipher what a "touchdown" is and which team is wearing periwinkle and which is sporting chartreuse, the peeps at True suggest you "create your own silent 'game' of people watching or find a new hairstyle in the crowd." Doesn't that sound like fun? Just sit there quiet like a pretty little mouse, and try to locate the latest version of the mullet in the crowd. They didn't add that you should also fellate him with a bowl of pretzels taped to the back of your head, but I sensed that was the subtext.
My idea is that you make your man purchase a second TV for the bedroom— or, if like me, you don't have bedroom doors, the bathroom. In fact, the bathroom might work better, no matter what the case. You can use the facilities when he emerges for a cold one; otherwise, out of sight, out of mind.
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