Every time the World Cup football season dawns on us, I am doomed. I could be just part of the furniture, a speck in the wall or even non-existent.
I suppose this negligence is inevitable if you live with three men (husband and two sons). I should have gotten used to it by now, right? But the daredevil in me goes on an overdrive to prove my worth in their lives. And I fail miserably — every time.
In 2006, when my youngest was a year old, I tried to play the role of a concerned mother to the hilt. “The World Cup would divert attention from our baby and he would feel left out,” I tried to plead with my husband innocently. Much to my chagrin, the toddler was happy to be in my husband’s company in front of the television set.
Cut to 2010, I turned hostile, threatened to close down the kitchen and boycott all domestic chores. In a magnificent display of male bonding, my husband and our two boys welcomed the idea. They turned my little haven into a man-cave. Fast-food and take-outs ruled the food pyramid. Empty food wrappers and football props were strewn all over the place. They said it was the best thing I had ever done for them.
Then in 2014, I decided to join the madness. I painstakingly learned the tongue-twister names of all the footballers, their teams and signature moves. Within the first two matches, I was bored out of my wits. Seriously, a few men running behind a silly ball is what all the commotion is about?
This year, I am trying the holistic approach of retail therapy. I have marked all the summer hotspots and latest brunches in town. I am going on a credit card spending spree with my fellow-stricken girlfriends.
The impending bill should teach the alpha male a lesson -- unless I am in for more disappointing revelations in life.
— The writer is a special contributor to XPRESS