Football Figures

I just love football season, don’t you? What’s not to love? There’s the name calling and the obnoxious drunk people falling down in the parking lot before the players even reach for their helmets, not to mention the large grease stains on your best blouse from the fried chicken, and the heartburn from all the pulled pork you inhaled off the back of a pick-up truck before kickoff. I can practically smell the cheap bourbon wafting through the air as we speak.No, seriously y’all, I really do love it, especially college football and tailgating. See, down here it’s not just a sport, but a way of life. Since UGA is my dad’s alma mater, I’ve been tailgating in Athens since I was, as my Mom likes to say, knee high to a duck. So, in 1990, when I showed up as a freshman at my dorm room at Oglethorpe, I couldn’t wait to experience life, a.k.a. football, as a bona fide Georgia Bulldog out on my own. I’m still not sure how I got out of there alive.

When I say college football is a way of life, I really should say it’s more of a religion. It’s a place where thousands of screaming, but normally sane, human beings with painted faces worship together at the edge of one hundred yards of well kept Bermuda. Fight songs are as sacred as hymnals and a Bloody Mary can erase all of your sins from the previous night.

When I was at Georgia, the boys who rarely made their 7:50 a.m. class all week actually got up early on a Saturday and put on a button down shirt and a tie. The girls put on their best dress that was at least long enough to smuggle in some bourbon taped to the inside of their thigh. It was absolute chaotic madness -- just good ole blood pumping, adrenaline driving, who cares how we feel the next morning, fun.

I really miss those days; especially now, since I’ve had two little ones and my hips are as wide as a field goal post. Back then, I could eat about five pimento sandwiches (the ones with the crust cut off) and two pieces of fried chicken, drink three beers and still feel good walking down Baxter in my size six dress. Now, if I eat one piece of fried chicken, I have to fast for a week on Slimfast shakes, walk forty-five minutes on the treadmill, and remember not to breathe too deeply because I really don’t want to unbutton the top button of my pants.

The other day I was in Tibi looking for something to wear to a local function. I had the place pretty much to myself, and was leisurely perusing the racks at the right of the store until a cute, young college girl came in with her boyfriend in tow to find something to wear to a sorority party after the next week’s football game. Some dress must have caught the guy’s eye near where I was standing, because next thing I knew, he was headed my way. That was until I heard the sound of a throat clearing from the other side of the room. “Those are the big sizes, honey,” she says and dives into the sample size rack. “Oh, you just wait,” I wanted to tell her, but I stopped. She’ll find out for herself soon enough.

Were my feelings hurt? Sure. But I just did what any self-respecting mom nearing her forties would have done: I crossed the streets to Gnat’s and ordered a side of fried pickles, some sweet potatoes fries with ranch, and a chili dog with slaw. I felt a lot better after that.

I never used to have a problem keeping off weight. As a child, my nickname was “String Bean.” I hated it, absolutely hated it. Now I just might do anything to get it back. Well, except train for a marathon. I actually did try the running thing once. It was fine until the day I was passed by a ninety year old man and his 300 lb. nursing aide. And if that wasn’t humiliating enough, a really fat cat and her litter of kittens weren’t too far behind (and I swear one of those kittens actually smirked at me as he went by.)

Even in middle school, my dad used to taunt me every time I reached for a Little Debbie out of the snack drawer. “That brownie’s going straight to your hips one day,” he’d tell me cheerfully, all the while inhaling an entire bag of Lay’s potato chips. Lo and behold, he turned out to be right. (And don’t you just hate it when that happens?) What really stunk was that not only did those brownies go straight to my hips and thighs, they decided to stay there and pucker.

See, along came my two new annoying roommates, Estrogen and Progesterone, and even after 26 years we still don’t get along that well. Overnight my upper thighs blew up into two giant Little Debbie Swiss Roll cakes. And since then, I’ve also acquired two rather substantial Oatmeal Crème Pies on my backside.

So I’ve finally graduated to the “big girl” sizes but that’s fine with me. I actually really like my hips and my thighs. They’ve seen and done a lot over the years since I was as skinny as a string bean. They’ve resulted from eating pizza in Rome, drinking tequila in Mexico, and sipping daiquiris in the Caribbean. They’ve even helped me with the birth of my two greatest treasures in this world: my girls. I’ll admit they could be a bit smaller, but they sure have been good to me over the years. As my little five year old friend Ella Moore told me the other day, “I’m a cookie dough eater. So what?”

Now, Ella weighs as much as a 2 lb sack of flour, but I couldn’t agree with her more. I also happen to be a cookie dough eater. I love pimento cheese sandwiches with the crust cut off, fried chicken, cold beer, Bloody Marys, and football too.

If you see me attempting to jog on Sunday after game day, please just try not to laugh at me when you blow by. Twenty years may have passed since I showed up at Oglethorpe with my size six dress, but like your average college freshmen, I still like to have some good ole blood pumping, adrenaline driving, who cares how we feel the next morning, fun. Well… every now and then, that is.

***And speaking of tailgating, here’s an interesting, though morbid, fact: Tailgating can be traced back to the Battle of Bull Run and the start of the Civil War. Union followers showed up with food and drink to watch the fighting, yelling, “Go Big Blue!”