Having reached the ripe old age of 20, I have had my share of life experiences that have shaped me into the unbelievably handsome young man I am today. Romance, love, relationships – all that jazz – have stamped some of the larger footprints on my mind and heart. However, the “love” I speak of does not necessarily take the assumed form. Sure girlfriends have come and gone, but come on, you think I’m going to spend the next 800 words musing about exes? Pa-lease.
Some people think of romance as flowers, candy, and dinner by candlelight. I’m not trying to dissuade anyone, but that just isn’t for me. My idea of a perfect date – a Monday night blowout at the expense of the Patriots. I get the chills just thinking of Pennington (now Bollinger? Vinny? Willie Beamen?) hooking-up with Coles on a deep post route; of Curtis Martin breaking free and busting out a 70-yard dash to the end zone; of Herm stoically pumping his fist in delight on a sideline full of smiles and jubilation. In essence, I am dating the New York Jets. When I go to sleep she is the last thing on my mind, and when I wake up she’s the first. I live, breath and die by her. And I’m proud to boast that we’ve been going steady for almost six years now.
The fact that I currently live upstate, leaving her 250 miles away, has posed a problem these past years. But I have found a way to work it out. I stay involved in her life, and updated on her every move via news clippings. Sure our face-to-face (or face-to-television screen) interactions are limited to once a week, but daily I express the magnitude of my love for her to whosever willing ear I can find. I take full interest in everything she does – her highs and her lows. Anytime she hurts, I feel her pain. When Chad went down last week, I fell apart. I anxiously watched from the sidelines as my world came crashing down, knowing there was nothing I could do to help. My heart is in her hands. As quickly as she makes me smile, she can make me weep. My friends say I am obsessed; I say I’m in love.
A common complaint about relationships is how time consuming they are. Yap, yap, yap, I simply cannot relate. I like spending time with the Jets. If I didn’t, why would I be in the relationship in the first place? To be brutally honest, I wish I could spend more time with her. Sunday is by far my most rewarding day of the week.
Jealously and possessiveness are even less of an issue. I encourage my friends and family to be as involved as possible when it comes to her. I am 100 percent faithful in all respects. I never cheat on her. I don’t play fantasy football (I don’t like rooting for other players on other teams). I’m not up late Saturday night double-checking stats and fixing rosters. I’m a one girl kinda guy.
And she does her best to make me happy. Granted she doesn’t serve me a hot bowl of chickerina (a soup far superior to the conventional chicken noodle) when I’m sick and bedridden like a “normal” girlfriend might, but the Jets still pick me up when I am down. I can be over-worked and over-tired, but a solid Sunday afternoon performance can keep me smiling through Wednesday. On top of that, she’s not at all picky. I am sure there have been ladies in my life who have dismissed me because I just missed the Adonis mark, but in the words of Blessed Union Of Souls, “she likes me for me.” She never complains about my unkempt appearance – or my weary wardrobe – or my lanky bod.
As with any couple, we have our differences. I’m a late sleeper, but she often insists on waking me up by 1:00 for an early date. And she can get under my skin pretty easily (what girl can’t?). A few weeks ago the floozy went out and made me look like a complete ass, dropping snaps and touchdown passes left and right. She had me pacing my room, cursing her every move. She had me saying things I didn’t mean but couldn’t take back. Naturally, sometimes my rough edges rub her the wrong way – I’ll get drunk on Saturday night and be a mess when she needs me in the morning. So, we have our fights – but it’s different. I’ve had girlfriends, and the upset can persist.
But not with my Jets. If she pisses me off one weekend, I’ve made peace with her before the next. How can I stay mad at her for more than six days? Better I should make the move and ask some blonde to Sunday brunch at Stella’s? No thanks guy. I’d rather suck up my pride, and have myself an intimate afternoon with the Mrs.
If while reading this you’re asking yourself, “who the hell is this loser?” let me remind you how many Americans feel the way I do. Ever been to Green Bay? No? What about Oakland? Well, let me ask you this then – what do you call an overweight, thrice divorced, 45-year-old man dressed head to toe in a black and silver costume, complete with a horned helmet and face paint? I call him a romantic. Any man who goes to such extremes to capture the eye of the woman he loves deserves some credit. In a society where the annual divorce rate hovers around 50 percent, I’ll take a football team that is around year after year before I invest in a girl who could find some muscles and drop me in a month.
That being said, if there are any ladies out there who share my sentiments, I can be reached care of The Sun. Maybe a Sunday threesome isn’t such a remote possibility after all.
Ben Kopelman is a Sun Staff Writer. 2 Legit 2 Quit will appear every other Tuesday this semester.
Archived article by Ben Kopelman