Or: I Swear I Watched the Super Bowl and This Post Has Almost Nothing to Do with Sports
* Wait, is that not a football thing?
By nature, I am a bookish introvert. One of my favorite ways to spend an evening is wrapped up in a blanket, tucked up on my couch with a book**.
**And marshmallows. And wine.
But not many adventures happen when you’re safely enjoying the company of your couch cushions, and I am a big fan of adventures. There is a happy, malicious part of my brain that has rebelled from my quiet reclusiveness, and makes regular, extroverted demands on the rest of me.*** And last Monday, that part of my brain decided that it was time for a party.
***I also blame this part of my brain for all bad decisions ever made.
I tried to argue with her using logic and sensibility.
But I’m not very good at it, because logic and sensibility sound very boring and not at all like “Let’s drag a bunch of our friends over to eat junk food and pretend we know all the rules of sportsball. Uh, I mean, football.”
And so that’s how I decided to throw a Super Bowl**** party. I invited many people through the magic of technology and the Internet. I reveled in the joy of party planning like an adult and the impending fun of unhealthy food and friends.
****Superb Owl. Sportsball. Can you tell I am clearly the best and most logical choice for hostess of a football party?
And then yesterday morning arrived.
I woke up to the realization that I had less than 8 hours to clean my living space and make snacks and pretend to be a cool, collected, organized human being***** instead of a girl who periodically builds blanket forts and lives on boxed macaroni and cheese.
*****Just in case I might suddenly be able to fool my friends into thinking I have my life together.
Just when I decided I had clearly mastered adulthood and was definitely going to be prepared by the time people came over, disaster struck.
I may be just slightly mortally terrified of bugs.
But I also was perpetually aware that, in addition to a bunch of friends, I had invited over a guy I like. And he was coming over early to help me make proper football snacks.
I had no time to cower from the bug.****** So it was time to get tough.
****** I named him Maximus, Destroyer of Productivity.
We circled each other for a good three minutes. But I was motivated.
And that’s how my copy of Moby Dick ended up in the bushes outside my apartment. I am educating nature.