I ate enough food this weekend for ten people, seriously. It was embarrassing. It’s was awful. It was gluttony to the point of being grossly inappropriate. But still…what’s a Super Bowl without food? Or a birthday party without cake (we had two this weekend)? Neither scenarios belong in a world I want to live in.
So it was with my plate of buffalo dip/ham sandwiches (yes, that is plural)/tortilla chips/cheesecake that I sat down to watch Madonna sing her halftime show. Holy guacamole (which I totally forgot to make, to my absolute shame and humiliation), y’all—that woman can dance! She HAS to be taking yoga classes, or water aerobics, or at the very least, jogging around her neighborhood after she drops her kids off at school. That woman is in shape! That woman can move!
I’ll bet leg lifts don’t leave her out of breath and seeing black spots, as they do to some people I know.
Anyway, as I was watching, I started counting the number of squats I saw her do in the first song alone. I lost count somewhere around forty-one. And then some guy flipped her around a few times like a human Ferris wheel—her feet staying all straight and pointy the entire time. Y’all, if someone flipped me even once, I would’ve passed out. Song over. Halftime done. Someone please call the paramedics. But she just kept dancing and singing as if being flipped every thirty seconds is part of her daily routine.
Flipping pancakes is part of my daily routine, but somehow these things don’t seem the same.
And THEN she climbed on some lucky guy’s shoulders. I say “lucky” because he was carrying Madonna around like a kid at a parade—like she was too short to see the floats passing by and needed a boost to catch the flying candy. At least that’s what I remember my dad doing for me when I was little. Anyway, can you imagine what this guy must have been thinking? “Dude! I’m, like, giving Madonna a piggy-back ride! On national television! Someone pleeeese tell me you’re filming this so I can watch the replay at home!”
The woman is fifty-three. I am…not fifty-three. And all I kept thinking was that if I tried to climb on some guy’s shoulders yesterday, he would be wearing a neck brace today. And I would be on the phone with my insurance company. And my lawyer. And I might even be ordered to pay for worker’s comp. And I don’t even know what that means.
So I think I’ll just keep living life with my feet on the ground.
Anyway, I loved the entire halftime show. Except this: my mother was at my house for the game. And for the love of all things right and good, why did Madonna not sing “Like a Virgin”?? It would’ve been nice if—for the first time in my life—I could have sang that song at the top of my lungs IN FRONT OF MY MOTHER without getting in trouble. Seriously. My one chance. Blown inexplicably by Madonna’s newest rendition of “Oh Mickey You’re So Fine…” complete with the pom poms, the updated fancy black cheerleading outfit with knee-high boots, and the background singer who flipped me off.
And being flipped off is soooo much worse than singing about non-virgins. Even in front of your mother. It was a sadness I assumed would take me months to get over.
But right after the game, Adam Levine and his Voice cheered me right up.
People—I just like this guy. I like his voice. I like his tattoos. In fact, if you’ve ever read my blog before, you know that sometimes (when I’m all medicated up on antibiotics) I even dream about him. Like, we’re school pals and stuff. Like, we dissect pigs together and stuff.
I’m happily married. So it’s nothing weird. We just sit together and use knives to cut apart formerly living things. What’s the big deal?
Anyway, The Voice starring Adam Levine (totally Team Adam) is back. And now, along with my absolute new love for Downton Abbey and my tried-and-true love for The Mentalist, I have (for the foreseeable future) entered a new domain in my super-exciting life called TV HEAVEN. Every night of every week is now penciled in for television time, where before, I had nothing to entertain me except on Thursdays.
I love mindless entertainment. It’s the best way to pass the evening. If you’re me.
And couple it with a plate of crap food, and there’s really nothing better.
Talk to you later—