Major American events often cause me to ponder the fabric that clothes our society. Events, like say for example, football games.
I won’t claim a long personal history of great interest in football (or for that matter, really any particular large-scale sporting culture). I’ve engaged in a bit of fanfare in the past with close family and/or friends who were excited about the festivities and tradition that goes along with a big day like the Superbowl. And I’ve always kind of enjoyed how “Superbowl Sunday” tends to feel like a much more realistic version of what we try to accomplish on Thanksgiving. You know; the gathering of loved ones, a feast of comfort food, pure and utter (and deserved) bouts of prolonged laziness… Superbowl Sunday is a bit like Thanksgiving–without all the unnecessary formalities and preparations. Hell, in America, Superbowl Sunday is its own damn holiday.
For me, it’s never been about the sport. I mean, really. But I guess that’s part of the fun for me. I can half-watch the television screen while I also half-zone out into the dimension of cheese-dip and champagne and that sense of companionship that washes over the room when everyone is sitting there, gorging and watching and drinking and talking.
Yesterday’s Superbowl celebration was just perfect. My friend Sarah and I decided to have a super-chill day. We ceremoniously gathered a variety of gourmet goodies and classy-bitch wines for our Sunday festivities, and proceeded to her place in the Portland suburbs. And there we sat–in the cozy downstairs cave with our feet up and delicious food in front of us and never-ending bubbly in our glasses and a blissful buzz in our bodies. And we talked, and we watched. And we laughed so much. And the football–well, the football was actually quite entertaining to watch too, cause nobody was screaming like a madman at the playback. And I have to admit–the drama that ensued because of the power outage at the stadium–well, that was just such a great twist.
We had a pretty badass Superbowl Sunday, I’d say.
And today, the only cure for my football-food-booze-hangover, is a cup of strong coffee and a few hours of writing. Just what the bombshell ordered.