I long not to be in the stadium, ungainly and apologetic as I press against dozens of pairs of knees to fetch a snack or visit the ladies room. What I enjoy is witnessing, up close and in high def, the pressure, the stress, the pain, the relief, the excitement, the jubilation of the players as they leap, pirouette, celebrate and mourn.
Last night, however, for the first time, I got somewhat of a feel for the actual play and was so startled by this that I had a bit of an existential crisis: Who was I, really and what in the name of Joe Willy and that crazy fur coat is it all about?
After wondering whether my girl, Queen Latifah, was lip-synching ( I think so) and enjoying the National Anthem as sung (a wee bit too slowly) by the fabulous Renee Fleming, I settled in for what I hoped would be the montage of of emotions I expected to see. Alas, other than poor Peyton Manning's disbelieving expression, there was very little. Even I, football novice, knew it was a boring game.
|Was she or wasn't she?|
|Realistically, this could have been|
There were eyes in the sky, infra red everything, control rooms jammed with grim Red Bull swilling state troopers, psychics in turbans as well as policeman dressed as little girls ( I made that up)comprising the operation second only in scope to what Putin is choreographing for Sochi next week.
Even I could tell, as the Seahawks ran up the score and their coach started high-fiving everyone in sight during the first quarter, that the game was a bust for both football aficionados as well as people watchers such as myself.
The commercials were a disappointment, too.
Once Seth went to bed right after half-time -- which he would never have done during a closer game --I, too lost interest and switched to my DVRed episode of Downton Abbey but what I did catch of the multi-million dollar ads did not impress although they tried very, very hard. Too hard...I don't even remember them.
There was something creepy about the sex lives of cattle, something about yet another stupid M&M totally oblivious to the fact that he is about to be eaten, something in another language, something about a Maserati and nature that I didn't understand and something with Ellen Degeneres that I also didn't understand. I have never not liked the Muppets but I didn't quite understand what they were up to, either.
I also kept thinking about Phillip Seymour Hoffman and, even while -- to the best of my ability -- understanding the nature of addiction and empathizing with whatever struggles pushed him toward the anesthesia of a needle, feeling really, really angry that he gave away his life when, lately, I seem to know quite a few people who wanted nothing more than to hold on to theirs but could not, no matter how they tried.
It was a Superbowl of pretty colors...the deep orange of the Bronco's jerseys combined with the small slice of bright chartreuse of Seattle made for an eye- pleasing contrast but a good color scheme, unfortunately, isn't enough.
I switched back a few times during Downton but the body language from the Broncos just got worse and worse and the Seahawks just looked giddier and giddier. I didn't even bother checking the numbers on the upper left. I knew what was happening.
Bruno Mars was the highlight of the night for me. "Well, he's quite the entertainer," commented Seth and I agree but, as always, was distracted by his baby soft skin and his skyscraper of a pompadour. Youtube has unsuccessfully tried to teach me how to achieve height by moussing my roots. I wonder what videos he's been watching because that hair is awe-inspiring.
So was he...I had no idea he could play the drums like that and he looked like he was having fun instead of appearing to be in a homicidal rage as did Beyonce and her inner thigh muscles last year.
|Mommy, I'm scared.|
|Looking good, gentlemen.|
So, as Peyton sits around today, dazed and confused and, as the Seahawks fly home to a welcome from their hometown, I will finish up Downton Abbey since I fell into a snooze before the servants challenged the peerage to a game of touch football on the manicured lawn.
That night I dreamed that Bruno's pompadour climbed to the top of the Empire State Building and got shot down by fighter planes.