For those of you who read my last post, other shoes keep dropping. Big Ass Steel Toed Boots keep dropping. For those of you who haven't, go ahead and read it. We'll wait.
Caught up? K.
So Big-Ass shoes have continued to drop at a steady rate, and we are all a little on edge here. We are four exposed nerves walking around taking turns freaking out and eating thin mints like M&M's. And when you operate at this level of "What the Fuck is Next" for an extended period of time, every ripple becomes Euripidean in scope. Forgetting milk at the grocery store, or getting stuck behind a slow driver or not being able to find the right socks to boost your mood are fate-questioning obstacles which can be added to the growing mountain of evidence supporting the universe's conspiracy against you. As a result, imperceptible bumps in the road become metaphors for a perceived narrative that can only lead to ends that equal or surpass those of Cleopatra, Hamlet and Willy Loman combined.
And then along come the Eagles. Carson Wentz leads them to Super Bowl dreams until a season ending injury stops them just short. No way can the back up quarter back fill his shoes. Unless of course it is Nick Foles. I was banned from watching the NFC championship because as soon as I walked in the room, the Vikings scored. The more evolved of you will snicker at my sense of importance, thinking that I couldn't possibly hold sway over the results of a game not even remotely related to me. And to all of you I say-Big Ass Steel Toed Boots. I was not taking any chances, so I left the room.
I contemplated doing the same for the Super Bowl, but my gut told me otherwise. So I sat. and played it cool and knitted for most of the game. Husband and Son #1 have always been loud football watchers. Son #2 and I tend to be more reserved, though Son #2 let fly a few choice words for the refs when he felt an injustice had been done. For most of the game, however, we all played out appointed roles, until the last 2 minutes. I paced by the coat closet, Son #1 and Husband tested the volume of their voices and Son #2 was pretty close to throwing up. Then Brady's final pass was blocked. The Eagles won. And the Carpenters had a catharsis that would have made Aristotle proud.
Husband and Son #1 danced and screamed, I fell to the floor and let loose a primal yolp, and Son #2 ran outside in his bare feet and paraded up and down our sidewalk chanting a triumphant WOO-HOO! We didn't realize how much we needed a win. We didn't realize how much we needed to feel happy. We didn't realize how much we needed to become reacquainted with hope.
Our particular catharsis lacks subtlety and nuance and art, but it is real and restorative, if only for a few days. And when I went to Dick's Sporting Goods the next day and overpaid for Super Bowl shirts and hats, I didn't bat an eye, because those are our talismen; they are the armor we don in what seems like our version of Agincourt. I still believe in Hope, but I stopped trusting it for awhile. I'm still scared of it, of the vulnerability it demands, but I'm more scared of living without it.
So, I will endeavor to dress my soul like Jason Kelce and start each day with a resounding Hell Yeah, because no matter the outcome, despite the Big Ass Steel Toed Boots out there, it really is the only way to live.