As most of you are well aware (maybe too aware), there was a football game last night. BYU vs. Utah. I graduated from BYU and grew up cheering for them, but-
I am not a die-hard fan.
I pick and choose about which I am die-hard, and the list is pretty short (although, sadly, pizza made it).
I would like to like football more than I do. I appreciate the athleticism required and understand the violence (my evil alter-ego always made an appearance when I played contact sports), but just struggle to sit through a whole game. I mean...all the media timeouts, come on.
But if you replace media timeouts with people watching? I'm in.
Which is why I was happy to go to the game with Conlin. We left early, parked, and then melted into the conglomeration of BYU and Utah fans swarming toward the stadium. Miles away we could smell the Kettle corn, and the mounting excitement was palpable.
We climbed to our seats (Conlin decided to jump over chairs because...he maybe thought I would enjoy doing that in a dress?) and admired the stadium, the buzz of chatter, and the perfect weather.
And that's when she made an appearance. Satan incarnate.
Red Ute shirt, blonde, smirking at the surrounding BYU fans. She shuffled to her seat, sizing everyone up, and making pointed eye contact when possible. When she landed smack-dab in front of us, she turned around, bellowed (in a grossly masculine voice, my petty self would like to add), "Gooooo Utes!" And then grabbed her necklace--oh joy of joys--that had a whistle on it. Whistling till she was pink in the face, she made a "U" sign with her hands and began jabbing it at the surrounding fans.
I was absolutely disgusted. And not because she was cheering for the other team, but because she was there more to taunt the fans than support her players.
I grew increasingly agitated every time she whistled, or made her stupid "U" sign, or bellowed various obnoxities (Seussian for "obnoxious things"?). I crafted possible life stories for her, Beauty school drop out. Obviously didn't finish or she'd know how to fix her bad dye job. Etc. I compensated with game blows by thinking various forms of, you may have scored a touchdown, but you're still sporting that awful eyeliner. It was all very classy on my part.
At one point, when she was whistling with particular vigor, I muttered to Conlin, "She's lucky we're sitting behind her, because a lesser fan might be tempted to slide their hands around the back of her necklace and yank-" I mimed the action.
Conlin laughed uncomfortably.
And that's when I realized--
I had mislabeled Satan incarnate. That title clearly, sadly, belonged to me.