Time to feel sane
When you’re mentally ill, holidays can be a time to dread more than a severe case of the whooping cough. People with normal levels of serotonin, who never experience depression on a normal day, are kicked in the butt during “Singles Awareness Day” (Valentine’s Day) or “The Money Disappears Fast Month” (Christmas, Hanukkah) or the worst of all, “Gift For Another Wrinkle and Gray Hair Day” (New Year’s and Birthday).
Other than Halloween, the Super Bowl is the only holiday I can stand.
The main reason why is one important ingredient, junk food. It’s the only time of year nobody is going to complain or look at me like I’m an alien if I eat a large bag of M&M’s or Doritos. Plus, it’s the one night I don’t end up gaining so much holiday weight that people ask me what trimester I’m in, which happens to me at the end of the winter holiday season.
Though the biggest perk to this festive time of football is that I feel like the mentally healthy one. I don’t dress up in matching sweatshirts, caps and jeans and yell at the television screen so loudly it looks like I have steam rising from my head; neither do I throw food or jump up simultaneously to place my hand against the nearest sweaty palm. And this is coming from a non-alcohol drinking extended family. I can’t even imagine what its like to be around intoxicated people. I don’t even want to know the horrors of that experience.
Although I never pay any attention to which teams are playing or who received a concussion in the quarter, I do enjoy watching the commercials. In fact, it’s the only show where I don’t fast forward or mute the commercials since I love the hilarious talking penguins and the sob-worthy Bud Light commercials.
But why I really watch the Super Bowl is the men in tight pants rubbing up against each other. Oh wait, I’m not a gay man. Well, supposedly the men playing aren’t either. That’s a highly debatable philosophy though. I mean what better way to deal with closeted homoerotic tendencies than to appropriately get the chance to routinely slap each other on the ass without being labeled a queer.
Ever since I could put a cheerleading outfit on I’ve fallen in love with cheerleaders. Not sure why they are my forte, but something about a woman in a short skirt.
Moving into my apartment on Super Bowl day of all days, I managed it this year because I don’t even have basic TV stations yet. Unfortunately, I missed out on feeling like the mentally sane one. Instead I got to spend the time dancing around my apartment in my underwear, Risky Business-style.
Oh well, at least my parents recorded the game so I could watch the smoking hot cheerleaders, beer-guzzling “animal-like” men and Christina Aquilera’s national anthem screw-up. Finally my holiday sanity will come back around.