We made it out of Monday alive.
Serious accomplishments over here.
Last night, after struggling through a bout of kettlebells (maybe just do that one without the bell for now, Gene suggested, as I realized I couldn’t heave it over my head and bend over at the same time), I came home to watch Monday Night Football.
Bears vs. Packers.
No matchup that I like better.
Chicks, I’m known for perhaps getting a bit too into football. I’m the kind of person who blacks out in my excitement and ends up on top of the couch, screaming incoherent things at my favorite players before finally coming to and climbing back down.
I love football.
And I love the rivalry between Chicago and Green Bay so much that a couple years ago, JD and I were banned from stepping out into public for this particular game, after a near-fight with a couple of Packers fans who showed up to the bar where we were trying to enjoy the game.
In our defense, they were on our turf.
Last night, however, I noted yet another change based on my body’s current occupant.
I am sure, however, that this has nothing to do with Baby W’s love of football.
I’m sure he’s just tired from all the growing.
However, I spent most of the night silently cheering on the Bears from under a blanket on my couch.
There was no leaping to my feet.
I barely raised my voice.
When JW made it home for the end of the fourth quarter, I was blinking in and out of consciousness.
Despite the fact that the Packers had the ball and we had only a precarious lead of seven.
I assure you, these actions do not correlate with how much I wanted the Bears to win.
After two amazing sacks by our defense to end the game, I announced that I had to go to bed.
JW said it didn’t feel like a win without me climbing on top of the couch.
So I obliged him, despite the fact that I’m pretty sure I looked like a zombie up there.
It was the first time the Bears had taken down Green Bay in years though, chickadees, so maybe there’s something to be said for some softer celebration.
Enjoy the win, Second City.