Do you miss me the way that I miss you?

Because I miss you.

I didn’t mean to stop blogging.  But for me, “stopping blogging” is a lot like “starting eating” – if I don’t pay attention, it just happens.  And then it’s been days, and then weeks, and I’m a wreck, moaning about how my life has no meaning or purpose and I’LL NEVER BE SKINNY AGAIN.

This cannot happen.  I WILL NOT ABIDE BY IT.  I must blog.

So, let’s play catch up.  It will be fun, and you will love it.

The numero uno, top tier piece of information from my life that I have to tell you is that I adore my new job.  I adore it.  It’s busy and dynamic and fun, and incorporates a lot of things that I love (writing, social media, ideas, relationships, to-do lists, generosity, details, travel).  It’s good for me to be out of the house, no longer working from home.  I am consistently wearing outfits – honest-to-goodness outfits – for the first time in over a year.  I am showering on a schedule.  I am talking to other humans in real life.  I am using my brain in fun ways, and getting to know the natural foods industry, and Tebowing on a regular basis out of sheer gratitude for the opportunity.

Speaking of Tebow, oh my gracious.  Did anyone else watch the Broncos on Sunday?  I did.  At the next door neighbor’s house – who I don’t even know.  But what can I say?  My decision to become a Broncos fan is bringing me into a new sphere, one with dual flatscreen TVs and crockpots of chili and really nice people and flags on the plays (which I pretend to understand and then get indignant about).  Living three blocks from the stadium, our Sunday evening was loud and giddy.  If you ever want to feel a part of a city, just start rooting for their sports teams.  Take it from me: insta-community-builder.

It’s a snowy, snowy day in Denver today.  But Subaruthless got me up the hill that all of the other cars were stuck on.  And because I don’t own a single pair of leggings, I am wearing my running tights under a long sweater and my black boots.

I’m ready for anything.

For the most part, I consider myself a pretty good “catch.” I am smart. I am witty. I am a good communicator. I am decent looking – not that I look in the mirror and exclaim, “DAYYY-amn, girl!” but I clean up okay. I take care of myself. I am well-read, and a good conversationalist. I am cultured. I like music, dogs, and adventures. All in all, I think I’m a pretty good Annie. What I have to offer isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty good. Any man would want me, right?

Wrong. I have a big, fat shortcoming. Something that is a major turnoff with the gentlemen. Something that is all too obvious during these autumnal days.

I do not like football.

It’s not that I dislike football – I just don’t feel one way or another toward it. And most of the men in my life – even the gay ones – love it. I tend to like guys who like football; it’s not a conscious choice, but somehow I’m drawn to these men. But these men are usually looking for a girl with a jersey, a girl who will turn on the game because she wants to watch, too, a girl who can eat the nachos and drink the beer and not gain an ounce. If I tried to join the 12th Man, it would be a joke, a farce.

I simply have no working knowledge of the game. It was only last year that I realized that there are 4 downs, which means 4 CHANCES. (Why didn’t you say so in the first place?) I was chastised last winter for shrugging my shoulders and saying, “Seven points? What’s the big deal – that’s like one point in baseball.” Guys who love football have no patience for my ignorance.

All of my football knowledge comes from pop culture. This will surely present a problem when my someday-lover is upset over a game, and I try to console him: “Oh, sweetie, do you have… the… Varsity Blues? Maybe you need to… Remember the Titans!” Due to their criminal history, I know about OJ Simpson, Todd Marinovich, and Michael Vick (may he rot in jail). Due to their love lives, I know about Tony Romo (dating Carrie Underwood) and Tim Hasselbeck (married to Elisabeth from “The View”). Due to his cute grin, I know about Brett Favre.

And yes, I know that it’s pronounced “Farv.” I’m not completely clueless.

When I think about football, I don’t get into the whole “warrior” aspect. I know, I know: the helmets, the battle, the full-body contact, the “being part of something bigger than yourself,” the strategic war that is raging on the field. But since I’m not really into the details, all that I see are thick necks and a bunch of booty-slapping. And a crew of old men with headsets and clipboards on the sidelines (what are they doing??).

But I AM interested in the sociocultural side of things. If Oprah did a bunch of human interest stories on the players, I would totally pay attention. Did they come from hardship, or were they privileged? How many kids do they have? Do they love their wives? How many nannies help out, and do they give them a car? I want to know how the referee got into his career. And what does he like to do in his free time? Who decides which pigs to slaughter for the football? Who designs the uniforms? And who is the invisible-yet-highly competent executive assistant to the manager? How much does she get paid? And maybe I could have that job?

Since I know so much about football.