Not very long ago, I was single, fat and one could argue my relative happiness. Weekend activity frequently began with five basic actions:
1. Roll over (on couch)
2. Snag menu basket
3. Dial number of eatery not renowned for “healthy options”
4. Grab remote and hit power
5. Commence football-viewing marathon
Sometimes ignorance is bliss. So it was with me. Aside from trying to cleanse out the remnants from the little fairy that comes and drops a metaphorical dump in your mouth sometime in the middle of the night as a result of drinking, smoking, dipping and other non FDA-approved ingestions, I found few things to complain about. Occasionally, I’d venture out for a few hours toward the late afternoon before hitting a bar or returning to the apartment for evening pigskin. So it went…
Then came a woman. Couple this earth-shattering event with my turning 30 and, well, things have changed slightly. Since this site attracts mostly manly-men (although we welcome all visitors with open arms), I’ll spare further details except to say weekend activity is now slightly more diverse. It also begins hours before noon – regularly. For some of our “older” readers, this may sound familiar.
I have adjusted to these changes…and, dare I say, they are good. I’d also like to think my social mojo, built up largely over the past decade, is still remarkably in tact. But, oh yes, and there is one more thing. Weekend activities now more frequently include weddings…and engagement parties…
This “season” I’ve attended only five, but it seems like hundreds. However, my ire has remained relatively subdued. After all, these are mostly decent people enjoying long cocktail hours, extended meals and overall festiveness.
Consider my ire rekindled in anticipation of this weekend. This Sunday comes the inexcusable – the fall afternoon-evening wedding. On a SUNDAY. Others have likely waxed poetic on this topic, so I will not belabor the point. It is simply…and utterly…deflating.
I consider myself a hard-working professional. A devoted brother and son. A good boyfriend who now “does activities” on weekends. But a man has limits. After a particularly long week, my desires are simple. If activities must occur, let them take place on Saturday morning and, if imperative, early afternoon. Sunday weddings are very clearly not on the agenda. You have an engagement party and a Saturday wedding to close the deal. But it gets worse…
I am a Manhattan resident. The wedding is in New Jersey…on Sunday.
Not convenient enough to allow prep at home and a quick commute, nor a further away destination that would have required a Friday day-of-work departure and somewhat of an extended vacation.
The Wedding is at 3:00 p.m…on Sunday.
This timing allows for the trifecta of beatdowns.
Just early enough to allow one not to comfortably enjoy the early games on account of suiting up, shuttling to the wedding and such.
Perfectly timed to conveniently miss out on the entirety of the 4:00 p.m. games.
And ending just late enough…say 9 p.m…to ensure that by the time you’ve said your goodbyes, grabbed a parting gift, found a ride to the train and made it back to the big city. You guessed it. Sunday night game finished.
And did I mention this wedding is on a Sunday? Top it all of with a little extra fatigue and, if you’re lucky, a fine hangover for a Monday morning at work and one could make the case the Sunday late afternoon slightly-out-of-town wedding on an NFL weekend is one of the crueler punishments imaginable.
So it is this Sunday that we’ll keep our fingers crossed for great SportsCenter highlights, further appreciate those brilliant founders of Monday Night Football and be thankful that our beloved Jets are a largely unwatchable 1-6 team on an expressway to embarrassmentville.
Such is life. Perhaps they’ll have good tempura…
Filed Under: NFL
About the Author: Cecilio's Scribe is the founder of The Legend of Cecilio Guante and a generally pessimistic fan of the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. A fine NYC-based gentlemen who hones his marketing skills as his primary trade by day. Husband, chef, father of a newborn and after-hours blogger by night. Proud alum of the mighty Big Red of Cornell. University. Hot sauce devotee. Staunch protester of the continued wussifcation of American sports. Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick.