It's Football Night in America (and I honestly couldn't care less)

As I type, my new husband is watching the Jets game. He is staring at the television with the kind of rapt attention I usually reserve for standardized tests. Strange noises are erupting from his mouth; a combination of shrieking, mock crying, cursing, grunting and even an occasional bark. I thought by marrying an artsy type I could avoid this kind of macho Sunday ritual, but it appears I was mistaken.

I have the same amount of enthusiasm invested in this game as I usually do, which is basically none. I'm not into football. Like, at all. Well, no--I take that back. I'm into football parties, but only for the snacks. Put me near a platter of nachos and I can get into anything.

The irony, of course, is that I'm from Texas, the football capitol of the world, where high school linebackers are local heros and people camp out for days for tickets to the big college games. Because I was on the drill team I attended every single football game--home and away--for the whole four years of high school. I did high kicks at half-time, shook my pom-pons in the bleachers and had absolutely no idea what all those sweaty guys in knee pads were doing in-between.

That's me in the white. Don't let my school spirit fool you; I was only in it for the sequins.

College was a similar story--I was part of an honorary spirit and service organization, which among other things, allowed us access to the field during UT football games. It was made clear to me that this was kind of a big deal, but the gravity of the experience was lost on me. During my wedding reception, our DJ played the Texas fight song and all the UT alums gathered on the dance floor with their horns up. I certainly never requested it, but I guess that's just what they do at Texas weddings? I tried to look really into it, but all I kept thinking was that I would have preferred something by Lady Gaga.

These days, there is nothing forcing me to sit through a football game aside from the very slight twinge of guilt that washes over me when I see Vin on the couch getting so fired up all by himself. Will this be one of those compromises everyone talks about in marriage? Should I at least attempt to understand this game so I can share this weekly experience with my husband?

The answer, of course, is no. But I will make him some freakin' incredible nachos.