Life is great. Another start to the University of Michigan football season. New Coach, new team, new luxury boxes. Not sure what to expect, but how bad could it be? Plus I’m older now, and I don’t let my sports team affect me personally. That’s just stupid.
"All is good at Michigan"
Michigan loses its home opener for the first time in 30 years
I can’t eat. I can, but nothing tastes good anymore. It is as though I’m visiting my in-laws and in an effort to ensure that no one is offended, a total lack of seasoning of any kind is added to any recipe. Please people, I woke up to the smell of browning garlic each day. How about some salt at least.
Even with Jabba the Hutt blowing out his knee with what looked like purposeful friendly fire, Michigan loses to Notre Dame. I can’t drink. Again, I can, but the crisp taste of a great margarita I remember is now a distant memory. The strong Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke for color is now nothing more than a brown soup over ice cubes. It is as though my taste buds have been worn away with 60 grit sandpaper on a belt sander. They feel right, but they are not working.
Back on the bandwagon. Michigan stages a comeback and beats Wisconsin. OK, the first two weeks were just an aberration. A once in a hundred years financial calamity that we are sure to bail out of. All is well. Walk safely to the lifeboats.
Nothing hurts anymore. When I run into things, which I am apt to do throughout the day, I look down at my aggrieved body part hoping to yelp in pain. Nothing to be had. The searing pain of skinning my shin has been replaced with the dull, barely registering throb of a splinter. Sure, you know it is there, but it really is not that big of a deal.
I can’t hear anymore. Again, I can, but the ability to tell the “I’m hungry” scream from the “I have a diaper full of crap and need my mom” scream has all blended into a monotone of barely audible sounds like those of a foghorn in the distance.
MSU wins at the big house for the first time since 1992
No longer can I discern the difference in the “That feels so good”/keep going all night from the faux ”That feels so good/hurry up and finish so I can get to sleep” siren call of my lady. I still do the yeoman’s work and have not dropped my 45-min. average, but no longer can I look in to the bedside mirror and shout, “I’m the king of the world” while giving my 18-inch biceps a flex and a peck on the cheek for good luck American Psycho style. Yes, I can still do it, and often do, but not with any kind of enthusiasm.
"All is not good at Michigan"
My broker still enjoying Cubans and single malt on the back of my ever decreasing portfolio can barley solicit more than a “Well, that does not seem fair” from my normally Mount Vesuvius-like temper. The entire of the world has turned into a sea of over-whipped, lumpless mashed potatoes.
This is a problem that cannot be fixed until the first day of the college football season 2009. Nearly 300 days of drudgery await. Nearly 300 days of the blank stares and half laughs at bad office jokes. 300 days of faux enjoyment of the weekly French Dip lunch special at the Diamond Cabaret. Sure, the $20 will buy the same number of lap dances, and the Champagne Room will over-promise and under-deliver, but I will rough through it.
Fall 2009, the pain can end. When Michigan takes the field for the first time and starts over. All of the promise of a new season. All of the promise of new Michigan records. All the promise of a return to glory. All the promise of regular chants of GO BLUE.
Until then, the spanktra vision will be watched but not enjoyed. The brown liquor will be imbibed, but only to dull the pain. The children will be ignored...but I do that anyway.
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