I have a confession to make: I didn’t watch the Superbowl.
I used to consider myself a football fan, I cheered for the Browns of all teams … Needless to say, after years upon years of miserable seasons, draft picks that go nowhere and a list of fired quarterbacks as long as my arm, I was left with a sour taste in my mouth for the entire league.
Enough is enough and a girl can only take so much heartache. I was done.
This year, I refused to watch the NFL. I skipped the draft, ignored preseason and canceled the NFL Network from my dish programming. On Sunday, when the majority of the nation was tuning in for “the big game,” I was happily Netflix binging on some ridiculous teenage show about Mary, Queen of Scots and folding laundry.
I knew that Denver won and someone told me Lady Gaga sang the National Anthem — but that is the limit to my knowledge of Sunday’s game. I didn’t see “the big plays,” I don’t know if there were bad calls, I have no clue as to who put on the halftime show and I didn’t see a single commercial.
And I was happier for it.
Football is so ingrained upon our culture that it actually took me a while to realize that I am not a football fan. I’m just not. I can’t tell you who threw for the most yards in 1967 — I don’t care. I don’t know which team has won the most championships (only that it’s definitely not Cleveland) and I have no idea who Byron “Whizzer” White is or what position he played nor do I understand the significance of being nicknamed after common kitchen appliances.
I understand that this position puts me in the minority of Americans and I’m OK with that.
We Americans love our sports; football, baseball, hockey — heck, my husband is a wrestler. Growing up, I played sports. I played softball as a kid, swam at the Y, rode horses, ran track and cross country and lettered in high school my Sophomore year.
But at some point I stopped being an athlete. It wasn’t a conscious decision. I just gradually went from being a participant in sporting events to a spectator.
Now I’m not even that.
The only exercise I get nowadays is from chasing my kids around and sweeping my kitchen floor like I’m an Olympic level curler. My husband and I don’t hike anymore, I don’t remember the last time I walked the dog and I honestly don’t think I would take up running again unless something big and scary was chasing me.
And yes, this all occurred to me from not watching a football game. What can I say? I over think things.
My point is that I realized that although I often refer to myself as an “active person” — I’m not. What I am is a busy person and there’s a distinct difference: the 80-year-old woman who lives on my street and power-walks every morning is more active than me — I just happen to have a fuller schedule.
But it’s not just me … I think a lot of people mistake their lives as active when what they really are is just busy. Running errands all over town — in your car — does not constitute exercise. Taking your kids to the park might — but not if you sit on a bench and play with your iPhone the entire time. (Guilty.)
So, from now on, I have new rules: no iPhone at the park, I will walk my dog at least twice a week and I will make an effort to become involved with some sort of sport like tennis or soccer or something.
Who knows? As my athletic prowess grows, maybe I could even play for the Browns. I hear they need a QB. Again.
