I'm serious. I am not a man. I do not feel like a man.
It's sad, 'cause I liked being a man. I liked the deep voice. I liked being able to buy buffalo wings anytime I wanted. I liked getting sauce on my chin and not feeling like I'd committed some faux pas, provided I wiped it off before too long. I liked slinging jumper cables over my shoulder. I liked that I could sing "I Am Woman" at karaoke night and everybody else would understand it was a joke. I liked being asked to play golf with other guys although I never did. I liked having a harem of Bond Girls. I liked the Circle K cashier calling me "sir" and being respectful even though I'd just bought three 24-ouncers of Keystone Ice and a butane lighter with a cow skull on the outside.
I enjoyed being a man. It was loads of laughs, and you can't beat the service at Men's Wearhouse.
Now I'm crankin' out the Edith Piaf (pictured) and thinking how lovely
Paris Kirkland will look in the spring.
This is how it feels when you tie your non-family, non-friend emotions into a professional sports team that's just hit the skids and doesn't look to be much better before playoff time. It doesn't just stink. It can be downright emasculating.
That's all I've been able to focus on, about football anyway, since yesterday afternoon. It was the first game this season where I couldn't even bring myself to get pissed, or very animated, during the fourth quarter when there was still a chance. The Dropping Shoe felt like it was hovering, even after Jackson scored the go-ahead touchdown.
And it's an affliction that seems to have finally hit Mike Holmgren as well: glum press conferences, subdued delivery, not even Holmgren's carefully controlled, suppressed irritability -- not too out of hand to turn his players against him, but just obvious enough to let you know he's ticked off.
The worst part is knowing that you probably don't have a lot to look forward to in the coming months. That fans of some other NFC team are going to earn use of the swagger this year. (Hopefully the Saints.) It'll sap the testosterone right outta your system. You go from Tyrannasourus Rex to Barney in a labored heartbeat.
Someone who's a fan of a team who's basically wrapped up the division title shouldn't feel like such a pansy. I should be gearing up for the first playoff game and figuring out how to bring the noise.
But I'm just bummed out over the prospect of watching a long, crawling death march that we know -- well, we think we know -- is inevitable.
You've got to remember, though, it's not the worst thing that can happen. There's always next year. At least we have maybe one more open-window season. Maybe we just make less mistakes in odd-numbered years. We have Edith Piaf.
So I'll get out of this once something really pleasant in another realm happens, and that usually happens once every day or so. It's not like I don't have my family, friends, or a great blog community. It's not like I don't have a great job. It's not like someone's, you know, unearthed vaguely homoerotic pictures featuring Matt Hasselbeck that I'd have to...
I want my Mommy.