They tell you marriage is hard. They tell you it involves sacrifice and compromise. And this weekend, Internet, I found out just how true that all is. I agreed to arrive at the Denver airport five hours early so that my husband could watch the Superbowl.
Did you hear me? Five hours early? At the airport? So I could sit in a mediocre sports bar and nurse a watery beer over my Oprah magazine while barrel-chested men bumped fists around me? I'll take that medal engraved with my full name, thank you.
Eh, it wasn't really that bad. It was fine, actually. Sean was happy because the Giants won, and I was mildly amused, in a socioanthropological sort of way, by the bizarre sort of camaraderie that builds up in situations like these, even if I find it terribly awkward when grown adults suddenly hover up out of their chairs, punch the air with their hands, and start shouting things like YES, GO ALL THE WAY, FINISH IT FINISH IT without warning. People, we're in public here. I'm far more comfortable when we're all just looking at our iPhone screens and avoiding eye contact like usual.
Sean and I spent the weekend in Colorado, where it was colder than the coldest thing you could ever imagine, unless the coldest thing you could ever imagine is the ten-minute walk from downtown Breckenridge to your hotel without a hat. Then it was that cold. Three degrees, in fact, and I am not even talking in celsius, like you probably imagined I was because I'm British. No, THREE DEGREES FAHRENHEIT, friends, which is about when you start losing all feeling, including any love in your heart you once had for the person who was all "eh, let's just walk, it'll be fine." Oh, now you want me to get to the airport five hours early so you can watch the Superbowl AND you're going to make me do it without any fingers so I can't even turn the pages of my Oprah magazine? Well, I guess we finally figured out what Meatloaf wouldn't do for love.
I may not have had a hat, but at least I had a scarf that took over my entire face. Actually, that's a snood and I got it for Christmas. I like everything about it, apart from the fact that it's called a snood. Also, is it just me or does Sean look really, really stoned in this picture?
We flew into Denver on Friday night, in the middle of a snowstorm, and then we drove our car at approximately three miles an hour through the snowstorm to Boulder, where we missed the first six songs of the Lemonheads show we'd come to see and yet still somehow managed to make it into the front row (you can even see me around 7:11 and 7:25 in this video. I'm the one in the pink scarf, nodding my head awkwardly because what else do you do at concerts? I mean, that's kind of the only option, right?) At this concert—about which I have Many Feelings, by the way, like that's any surprise—I finally got to meet Heather, which was lovely, if a little unconducive to conversation. ("When did you fly in?" "WHAT?" "WHEN DID YOU FL---" "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" "I SAID WHEN DID YOU FLY IN?" "WHAT? IT'S TOO LOUD! THE BASS!" etc etc, ad infinitum.)
On Saturday morning, we drove up to Keystone, which took about two hours, and was pretty fun, although a whole lot less fun when I accidentally misread the sign for the Colorado School of Mines and spent several miles with my face pressed up against the window, looking in earnest for classrooms full of people in striped shirts and white face paint doing "trapped in a box." (Man, talk about crushing disappointment.) We spent two days on the slopes—well, I spent one day on the slopes and one with my face buried in a large mug of hot chocolate while Sean spent it on the slopes—and then we drove back to Denver on Sunday afternoon.
And that pretty much puts us back at the airport sports bar, where we sat next to a couple who must have been in their late 70s, whose IDs the waitress nevertheless insisted on checking when the woman ordered a beer. I don't know what she thought was going to happen—that the woman was going to sneak it out back to her teenage granddaughter?—but they were fairly tickled by it nevertheless, and so was I, though not as tickled as I was when the woman stood up from her chair mid-game and started calling out "you turkey! Oh, you silly turkey! Don't do that!" to someone on TV. (Madonna, perhaps? Take those knee-high boots off, you silly turkey! You're fooling no-one!)
On our other side was a middle-aged woman drinking a glass of Chardonnay and eating a Caesar salad off a plastic plate—probably the only person less excited than me about sitting in an airport sports bar—who leaned over, tapped Sean on the shoulder, and said "I know this is silly, but are the Patriots the ones in white? I think I know that boy's mother. We used to summer with them."
(Settle down, it wasn't Tom Brady. I double-checked.)
(Also, can we talk about how someone actually used "summer" as a verb? That happens outside of Gossip Girl?)
In conclusion, I am back from Colorado with a husband who may or may not have broken a rib snowboarding, but who is nevertheless actively trying to stop any sneeze he feels coming because "it hurts too much to sneeze." I have not unpacked, my email inbox is overflowing, and I suspect this blog post needs a jolly good edit which I shall probably not get around to. On the upside, however, I do not have to watch any more football for a whole entire year. I'm sorry if that doesn't make you as happy as it makes me. Let's still be friends anyway.