Here we go again, folks.
The jerseys have been dry cleaned. The Caesar makings have been bought. The TV has been dusted, the surround sound has been checked.
The game-day bling — the beads, the scarves, the front-door flags — have been pulled from the box, and placed at the ready.
“Wanna have lunch on Sunday?” a friend asked the other day.
“What?” I asked, my eyes like saucers.
“Oh, right,” she said. “It’s starting up again, isn’t it?”
Darn right it is. Saturdays, I may be free. But that won’t be the case with Sunday.
For the next few months, Sundays — and the odd Monday and Thursday — will be spoken for.
If we aren’t at the stadium, we’ll be sitting in the TV room, yelling at the screen.
We will do what we always do.
We will have lox and bagels, because that’s what we always have on game day. We will dress our Caesars, not with olives or baby onions, but with exactly three pickled beans, two splashes of Worcestershire sauce and six ice cubes.
I will be wearing my team earrings and my team socks. I will take my position on the love seat, and the husband will sit on the couch. To mix that up would be out of the question, and possibly downright mad.
If the telephone rings, we’ll leave that up to the answering machine. Should someone drop by, we’ll welcome him in, but he shouldn’t expect conversation.
For the next few months, we’ll do the Monday-to-weekend thing. We’ll go to work. We’ll rake the leaves. We’ll shop, we’ll cook, we’ll exercise.
Won’t matter in the slightest what we’ll eat on a Tuesday or a Wednesday, or whether we’ll go to the pub come Friday.
Won’t matter at all where we sit when we’re watching the news or Jeopardy. Won’t matter whether I’m wearing argyle socks or pantyhose.
Won’t matter whether we’re sipping a glass of wine or a tumbler of juice, or even a cup of tea.
There’ll be nothing riding on any of that.
It’s starting up on Sunday, and I can hardly wait.
But don’t call us superstitious. We just have a small routine.
