For six long and hard days, God (supposedly) created the world we live in now from the abyss of nothingness. Whether you’re a believer in the Big Bang or some variant of religious creationism, I’m sure Gods graces can strike an empathetic cord in your overworked and under appreciated worker bee body. He worked and worked and worked and worked and on the Sabbath, he rested. As masters of our own universes and demigods of our own nature, the labor force takes a note from the almighty, punching the clock for X hours until the stress and pressure almost drown us, until finally, Sunday arrives and with it, a much needed breathe!
For most, Sunday is a day for furry slippers and groufits, carbo-loading and life maintenance…haircuts, oil changes, and dare I say it, other people!? Whether you’re a weekend warrior who opts to stretch out their cubicle calves on any given Sunday in the great outdoors or the book worm who retreats into their favorite rocker and indulges into the romance that is fiction, the day of rest is our most precious yet most finite resource the working man has. Alarm clocks are turned off, pagers and beepers are switched to silent, and dust collects on all things corporate for a 24 hour span that feels more like 24 minutes.
The constrast is stark – on time vs. off time – once one decides to plunge into this fabled real world. We work for ourselves of course, but paycheck collecting is selfless work, as a minute fraction of the wages are actually spent on ourselves. That is why, on Sundays we become selfish. We do what we what and when we want it, relishing at Day 7s scarcely enjoyed gift that is autonomy. While one may assume we’d capitalize on the opportunity, writing our screenplays, hiking miles, and partaking in all things work can’t provide us with…most know that is simply not the case. The realty is we are tired and must recluse and there is no example that stands for this opinion more than the weeks between September 8th to February 5th. This stretch of time for most men is watermarked with jubilee, as God has granted his worthy creations with NFL Football. As men rejoice and grow their winter beards our female counterparts are tested. While most people enjoy Sunday as their Sabbath, Tom Brady and Odell Beckham Jr. punch their time clocks and quite literally go to work…no one pays to watch you make your weekly cold calls, but the male universe stops spinning come Sunday and our girlfriends, mothers, sisters, and daughters are left in the cold….we’re honestly so sorry.
First and foremost, in the midst of post-election hyperactive feminist zeal, let me preface this with some validation. According to CBS, the percentage of Fantasy Football participants that have a vagina is less than 24%…and that IS including Patriot fans. While that number has been in constant growth since Fantasy Footballs inception, are you really going to play the PC card on me for this one? It’s factual and socially obvious that grown men stand as the majority when it comes to watching other grown men tackle other grown men….we’ll still tread carefully.
Trust me, (insert girlfriends name here), I’m not happy with it either but the morning games really do require an hour and a half of preparation. The time spent ironing your hair is tantamount to mine spent staring at my Fantasy line up. You straighten and I project. You’ll have to count me out for brunch with your parents, I’m not sure what Tight End I’m starting and will need to consult the authorities…next week though, I promise.
I’m sorry Mom! I know I said I’d help you move your furniture around and hang those family portraits for you…but Jacksonville is playing Houston at 4pm. Yes, I know we’re from New Jersey without any familial ties to neither Texas nor Florida, but I have Deandre Hopkins. Why don’t we just go next week?
Sorry sis, I know it was my turn to walk the dog…and yes, I know dog piss won’t come out of your prom dress. The Giants were in overtime though and I thought Sparky would just use the wee-wee pad. I’ll make it up to you though! When my 3 team parlay hits we’ll go straight to the mall…on Wednesday.
Sweetie, put your clothes on. There’s nothing you can do or say to get a rise out of me right now. My kicker missed an extra point…not even for a Victoria’s Secret Model.
FUCK! THAT WAS TODAY! Since when was church on a Sunday?? Yeah, there was a game in London…time change got the best of me I’m sorry?
Babe. Baby. I know….but I can’t. I know we said Sunday night HBO would be our new thing, but can’t it wait until March? I’ll buy us Westworld on Blu-Ray, can’t you just avoid your coworkers spoilers until then? Seasons half way through already!
It’s bad and we know it. For 10+ hours every Sunday for 17+ weeks the lights will be on but no one will be home. The bible says we deserve it and I bet most believe that to be true, but that time spent couch locked during the NFL season is inconceivable. Football is our scape goat, our excuse, and our get out of jail free card. The work week has drained us to the pit and Football Sundays are our nourishment. The potential that is a Sunday is all but dismantled by redzone…the leaves will change without our knowledge, the oven will be left on, and our To Do List will remain unfulfilled. As 9 out of 10 things get laid to the wayside, our priorities will remain stoic, with Football our religion and the professionals our idols. It’s dumb and stupid and bad and a million other different descriptions that’d leave a bitterness in the onlookers mouth…but like a dog and his bone, we loyally watch until it’s over.
For the women out there who have fallen victim to any Sunday scenario that even remotely resembles one of the ladder, this post isn’t an apology…it’s a thank you. On behalf of your husbands, fathers, boyfriends, and brothers, trust me, we don’t know how it got to this point either. From 12PM-12AM on Sunday we will cease to exist. Our bodies will be there, crusted with pizza and flushed with beer, but our minds and dare I say hearts are not…the things you love about us are with the pigskin and will presumably remain there until tomorrow. At that point you can have us back and we will make it up to you…next week tough. Take solace in the fact that it is indeed almost over and soon enough, Sundays will once again be “our day.” For the time being though, we request a hall pass for the season, you may hate me and cry foul, but for some innate, primal reason, we need this time…thank you for your understanding, ladies.