My husband came home a couple of weeks ago with a gleam in his eye and two papers in his hand. “Guess what these are?” he said.
Of course I was all “Plane tickets? Spa vouchers? Passes to an extremely early viewing of The Hunger Games? Please tell me it’s The Hunger Games!”
And after his face fell a few notches, he said, “No. Just Cotton Bowl tickets.” And I was all “Yay!” because I felt bad for pinning all my hopes on a movie. (But in my defense, can you imagine? Katniss! Peeta! Gale! The creepy President guy! And seeing them all two full months before everyone else?? Major cool points!).
Alas, they were football tickets. But not just football tickets—tickets to a bowl game! Some people might give their arm for tickets like these. I wouldn’t. I might give a friend’s arm, but certainly not my own. Anyway, I was all “Yay!” because I just love football. Nothing’s more exciting to me than seeing that ball pass over home plate. It’s my favorite sport. Woo.
Okay, so I only sorta like it. But I’m a tried and true Arkansas girl, and I do love my Hogs. Both the Razorback kind and bacon.
So we loaded in the car early Friday morning and drove to Dallas. I love Dallas. Dallas has a mall. And an American Girl store. And an IKEA. And lots of other things my husband wouldn’t let us visit that day because we had a football game to go to, and he seemed to think it was a big deal to get there on time. So we passed right by all that other fun stuff and drove to the stadium.
Which turned out to be a good thing, because the lines to get into said stadium were ridiculous. Like, clearance-sale-at-Dillards ridiculous. Like, I’m-trying-to-get-off-the-Titanic-and-there’s-only-three-boats-left ridiculous.
Which describes exactly what floated through my mind when—thirty minutes into waiting and still only halfway to the gate—I noticed they were dividing people into two groups: Men without purses and the Women who carried them. Otherwise known as the Fortunate and the Big Fat Losers. Needless to say, the men sailed through. But the women…the women continued to wait. Because someone in charge of Cotton Bowl hiring thought it would be a great idea to have only one lady give thousands of women a pat-down and purse scan. And someone else thought this brilliant idea wouldn’t make hormonal women just a little bit ticked.
I bet they regretted that.
Because only minutes later, two women in front of me almost got into a fist fight. And then the group to my left started calling each other names. Names that sounded suspiciously like Witch and Splut. I’m not totally sure, because it was a little hard to hear in the middle of all that noise…but that’s what I think they were saying. And then the lady behind me began to insult an old woman in a wheelchair. And a little girl two rows up watched it all, her head moving back and forth while her mother cussed out a worker.
And upon hearing this, all the other irate women also turned and joined the taunts aimed at the workers. Who—I’m sure—purposely slowed down just to make everyone even madder.
And I was standing there alone, because my husband was able to sail through and save himself twenty minutes ahead of me. Because he didn’t carry a purse. And I was so ticked that I didn’t shove mine at him and run.
Because by now, I wanted inside that football stadium like I wanted air. And I was all about saving myself. If the Cotton Bowl gate had been the Titanic, I soooo would have grabbed a life vest and jumped. Every man—or woman—for themselves.
But finally after an hour, I made it through the gate. And I never once cussed a worker.
Out loud.
And we found our seats before the game started. Which was a good thing. Because if I had missed The Band Perry and their awesome National Anthem, I totally would have gotten back in that line.
And joined the crowd of crazy women demanding justice.
Because you can make me late for a ballgame…but don’t ever mess with my love for country music.
Amy