I don't want to hear one, single, cliched word about football widows on Super Bowl Sunday, and I won't hear it around my house, because we have an understanding.
We also have seven televisions separated by three floors so as to avoid any conflict between fans of football, Lost and Hannah Montana, but it's the understanding that's important. Watching hockey is part of my job (when I have a job), and my wife accepts that. She'd accept it whether I was a sportscaster, a coal miner or a lint picker because:
a. I'm a man
b. I'm breathing.
c. It's football.
Besides, she's no more a football widow than I'm an e-Bay widower - a claim I could readily make because:
a. she's a woman.
b. she's stylish.
c. they have high-end handbags on e-Bay.
We even have together time in front of the television and computer to learn from each other. She can tell the difference between a clip and a chop block and I know a Mark Jacobs Stella from a Fendi baguette, even if I can't afford either because I'm already heavily in hawk for televisions.
What I'm trying to say here is that so-called football widows could spare themselves a lot of grief by accepting their husbands' passion, even if they don't embrace it. And fellas, there's nothing like a Louis Vuitton Papillion to comfort the grieving widow.