Super Bowl Sunday

I missed the entire Super Bowl this year. I can’t say that it was a conscious effort. First, I’ve been sick all week. I got up Sunday morning, started shivering, climbed back under the covers, and went back to sleep. I woke up around 2:30. I had hoped to have the morning to wake up, drink some coffee, write my thousand words, go to the gym, and then spend a little time considering what I was going to do in my 48th Street Exercise that night. It’s a sort of ritual I do before I perform. Plus, since I’d been sick, I knew I’d have to bail on the Super Bowl early so I could put together my laryngitis concoction so I’d have a voice.

All that went out the window. I got up, made some coffee, did my journal, and then just went to the gym.

The gym has televisions on the elliptical machines, but for some reason on the biggest football day of the year, they don’t have Super Bowl. I can watch any cable news network I want. I can watch gymnastics on ESPN (hey, nothing wrong with gymnastics, it’s probably the ideal cross-programming for the Super Bowl). But no Super Bowl. It’s like LA Fitness was a vortex from which all important events in the United States had been scrubbed.

I got home, ate, watched an episode of Mozart in the Jungle (it was halftime at this point), and then had to get my stuff together to get to the Groundlings at seven.

So I missed the entire Super Bowl. And you know what, I didn’t miss it at all. I know they pass it off like the modern Moon landing, that it’s this great moment that we all share, when all humanity can come together (seriously, to watch a bunch of guys do long term physical damage to one another in pursuit of a trophy?), but it’s just people trying to live vicariously through athletes. Sports media spends the weeks before trying to gin up all sorts of human interest stories, to get you to identify with these people on the field, instead of just going out and living your own life. If you’re a football player, great, go out and do that. But if you’re calling is to be a writer or a painter or a financial planner, stop pretending that you’re on the field with them. Be who you are.

Next year, I’ll probably get to watch the game again, though. I hope a team that I like is playing.