Today I am Writing: On Living in a Football Town

Three or so Saturday mornings ago I was sitting against the wall in my local cafe, waiting for my Americano to-go, when I noticed what appeared to be a lot of out-of-towners oogling over the menu options and just seeming generally out of place. I looked deeper out of my "It is Saturday morning, I am not awake yet, and I don't want anyone to bother me" shades to notice that they were all dressed in what appeared to be football-fan-attire.

I rolled my eyes back further into my head and hoped it made me invisible.

After the barrista came from behind the counter, working her way around the ooglers in order to place my coffee into my hand with an air of "we have to stick together," I walked back home and vowed not to leave again, all weekend.

Because this is what you do, when you live in a football town. You plan your life around when the people will be out of the stadium versus when they will be in. As soon as kick-off occurs, you throw your bag in the car and wing over to the grocery store as quickly as you can. You knock through aisles, tossing things into your cart that up-until-this-moment you didn't even know existed, just to get out of there with something you can survive on all week, and fast.

And when in the following weeks the students who keep you in the know tell you that the game is going to be away, you breathe. Deeply. You go to the store whenever you want to. There is no plan. Only, Freedom.

But then, there's a Friday, and you're writing, and your brain is tired, and you need a "let the ideas germinate" break, and so you decide to jump in your car and go run your errands only to remember--alas, far too late--that it is...

HOMECOMING WEEKEND.

You feel a great impulse to warn everyone you know, so you text your friend from the store: "I highly suggest you do not go out today. Kohl's, for example, is losing its mind." (Kohl's, of all places, being a destination spot for a return to good old State?)

And then you zip the neck of your coat up high and your sunglasses on tight, pat your uninitiated car on the hood with an affirming, "we're from New Jersey, we know what we're dealing with," and move on through.

You reach and pull and procure all the things you came out to do, and then you return home. You fight the urge to take a nap, and instead pour yourself a whisky. And then, you go back to writing. In your house. For the whole weekend.

Because you live in a football town, and this is what you do.