Super Bowl Sunday tomorrow. Here is the love letter I hope to find before the game starts. It will be from my husband, who has been looking forward to this day for, well, weeks. He has been obsessed. I understand that. Actually, I like it. He is a happy 49ers fan. Hopeful. Looking to be a winner by association. He has stocked the shelves with potato chips and pretzels. He talks about what heaps of happiness there will be if they win. I was insensitive enough to point out that there will also be heaps of joy if they lose. There is, after all another team playing. But, he can’t see them. This brings me to my point here about a love letter. To me. From him. And, before the kickoff. Because once it starts, he will not see me. Will not hear me. Will not know there is anyone else in the house. I want to find a beautiful piece of paper (well, actually, any scrap will do) that says:
You know how much I love you. Always have, always will. But tomorrow I will be pretty much anesthetized by my own testosterone once that game starts. I will not see you, hear you, or be able to hold a normal conversation. You will barely be able to recognize me for the changes in my personality. I will spend the day screaming for my team, at the other team and cursing our coach for any blunder. The good news is that if we win I will be happy for days to come. I don’t know why, but it is true. I won’t be gone long. But for just this day I’ll be out slaying dragons. I’ll be back Monday. Can hardly wait to see you.
Yes, this will make me very happy – like a hug goodbye before his embarking on ship headed into a storm.
From me to you with love in the air,
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