Terrible Secrets

I’m holding a horrible secret.

There are things about me that my husband doesn’t know and would never understand.

A couple of things came out when we were in Toronto. While I was out walking all over the city and he kept himself cooped up in the hotel room. He was watching hockey and the Indianapolis 500.

My husband absolutely despises the Detroit Red Wings. They are equivalent to the New York Yankees in his mind. They might have some talent but they are whiners and cheaters and they cannot appear on the television screen for more than two minutes without having his epithets start.

I don’t watch sports now, but I used to. I used to be such a rabid Detroit Tigers fan that I actually wrote a book on their 1984 season and published it before I got out of high school. I also followed the Red Wings. While many of my vaginally obligated peers had pictures in their lockers of pop culture hotties (I am so square that I can’t even name one), my locker was plastered with baseball and hockey players. I thought Steve Yzerman was TO DIE FOR.

So, as I walked in to the hotel room to find my husband howling and cussing at the television, I quietly sat down and watched with him and as Steve Yzerman came out to accept an award before the game and my husband was incessantly bitching, all I could do was sigh and think “Oh my, he is still TO DIE FOR!”

Then, there was the day of the Indy 500. My husband wanted to know if I was going to stay at the hotel to watch it instead of, you know, actively participating in the city that we had flown in an airplane to see. Now, you must understand how bizarre this question was. I don’t watch racing. Ever. I think calling auto racing a sport is like calling eating a sport. IT IS NOT A SPORT. IT IS A SPECTACLE. I watch racing on tv for two seconds and all I can think of is how much carbon these idiots are emitting into the atmosphere. Probably not what the racing industry wants me to think about…

But I guess I was supposed to take an interest in this race because there was a WOMAN racing. Just because there was a racer with a vagina, I was supposed to cancel all my plans, sit down, shut up, and be AMAZED that a girl can drive a car around and around and around.

Hmmmm. I’m not trying to discount Danika or what she has done or what she has accomplished but frankly, her chosen field of endeavor does not “do it” for me. I don’t feel vaginally obligated to watch her deplete the ozone layer just like I don’t feel vaginally obligated to vote for Hillary Clinton (Hooray Barack!). My husband kept insisting that “History will be made today! Don’t you want to be a part of it?”

Yeah. History was made when Hitler invaded Poland. History was made when Henry VIII broke with the church. History was made when Guttenberg made the first printing press. Guess what??? I didn’t waste a day of my fucking vacation watching any of that stuff either but miraculously, it happened anyway.

When I returned to the hotel at the end of the day, Danika did not make history, I had had a lovely day, and the world continued to revolve around the sun. Funny how things work out, eh?