I was reminded last night, yet again, why I married the right girl (I talk as if there were a multitude waiting in the wings in a Bachelor-esque rose ceremony...let us face it, I am lucky she was a. visually and/or b. mentally impaired at the time of our engagement).
Last night, the evening was winding down. She had been involved in a hard day of ridding the world of its tax related problems, probably adding and subtracting numbers, maybe even multiplying and dividing, them like a superhero, and I of course, basking in the glory of my lowly profession had read the final 200 pages of Moby Dick, read the first 50 pages of Beloved, run 7 miles and had 3 or 4 (who's counting) pints of beer at my new favorite watering hole, The Ginger Man (why would anyone do anything other than teach...this is my life for several months each year.....today, another 50 pages of reading, a couple of hours of cell0/guitar practice, and, yes, 2-3 more pints at the newly discovered J. Gilligan's). She was unwinding from a day of what I perceive to be real work, I was basking in the glow of the general haze of pain medication (yes, it was prescribed) and the aforementioned beers while watching, much to my dismay, the Spurs manhandle the Jazz when I heard a chuckle. I look over, and what do I see? - my girly accountant is avidly reading non other than the scholarly journal known as Sports Illustrated! She spent the next 15 minutes filling me in on the articles that I had yet to read...she was like a sports encyclopedia.
I am not a magazine guy. If I am going to read, it will be book or a short story, and if I am looking for soft entertainment, I will more than likely watch television, but Julie's parents bought me a subscription to the previously named sports publication at Christmas, and I have taken some delight in perusing the pages from time to time when my head becomes to tired for school work, but Julie has surprised me. I have alway given her points for being gracious enough to allow an almost nightly barrage of ball games of various sorts to invade our evenings, thinking that she was just being accomodating, but with the arrival of the magazine this year I have become convinced that she is only pretending not to care about sports as much as I do. She almost always gets the magazine before I do, and there have been more than a few times that she has let it slip in the course of a sports-laden conversation, "Yeah, I read that in Sports Illustrated."
I am on to you, Julie Stone. You are officially a sports-nerd; welcome to the club.
Last night, the evening was winding down. She had been involved in a hard day of ridding the world of its tax related problems, probably adding and subtracting numbers, maybe even multiplying and dividing, them like a superhero, and I of course, basking in the glory of my lowly profession had read the final 200 pages of Moby Dick, read the first 50 pages of Beloved, run 7 miles and had 3 or 4 (who's counting) pints of beer at my new favorite watering hole, The Ginger Man (why would anyone do anything other than teach...this is my life for several months each year.....today, another 50 pages of reading, a couple of hours of cell0/guitar practice, and, yes, 2-3 more pints at the newly discovered J. Gilligan's). She was unwinding from a day of what I perceive to be real work, I was basking in the glow of the general haze of pain medication (yes, it was prescribed) and the aforementioned beers while watching, much to my dismay, the Spurs manhandle the Jazz when I heard a chuckle. I look over, and what do I see? - my girly accountant is avidly reading non other than the scholarly journal known as Sports Illustrated! She spent the next 15 minutes filling me in on the articles that I had yet to read...she was like a sports encyclopedia.
I am not a magazine guy. If I am going to read, it will be book or a short story, and if I am looking for soft entertainment, I will more than likely watch television, but Julie's parents bought me a subscription to the previously named sports publication at Christmas, and I have taken some delight in perusing the pages from time to time when my head becomes to tired for school work, but Julie has surprised me. I have alway given her points for being gracious enough to allow an almost nightly barrage of ball games of various sorts to invade our evenings, thinking that she was just being accomodating, but with the arrival of the magazine this year I have become convinced that she is only pretending not to care about sports as much as I do. She almost always gets the magazine before I do, and there have been more than a few times that she has let it slip in the course of a sports-laden conversation, "Yeah, I read that in Sports Illustrated."
I am on to you, Julie Stone. You are officially a sports-nerd; welcome to the club.
I love SI. Love it. Love Rick Reilly. Love all of it. I'm not the biggest sports fan but I enjoy the magazine. When Chad was receiving it I would read it all before he got home from work. I was bummed when his subscription exprired. In fact, I told his parents that that's what "he" wants for Christmas.