Tuesday evenings have fast become ‘date night’ in the sickeningly cute coupled-up bubble that has recently become my home. With both of us having such busy work schedules and diaries that need a-keeping, we try our best to make sure that we have that one night of the week together to do something nice. It might be a trip to the cinema (my inner skinflint cursing that this blessed time with my beloved couldn’t fall on a more pocket-friendly ‘Orange Wednesday’), a night in with a take away, or if we’re feeling particularly frivolous, a bargain trip to our local ‘eat all you can’ buffet. Whatever we get up to, it’s something to look forward to each week, and it’s important to fit that quality time in together.
So imagine my horror when one week, a football match cropped up and ruined our weekly plan. It was a big game, a semi final, one that would ‘clinch a place in Europe’s biggest competition’s final’. It became clear that this was a game that would not be allowed to be missed. I know what you’re thinking. Typical bloke. What a git, putting a stupid thing like that before spending precious quality time with his adoring girlfriend. She must be crushed.
Well, I’m actually going to have to stop you there. Because, the truth is… it was actually me who committed this footballing faux pas.
Yes, I have managed to find myself a man that represents the 1% of his gender that in fact have less than zero interest in the beautiful game. The problem is that I have spent my entire life passionately supporting Chelsea football club. I go to games when I can, I’m obsessed with Fantasy Football, I watch Match Of The Day religiously, and I even plan on having a part of the club crest adapted into a tattoo design at some point. It has been something that has often left gentlemen past dumbfounded and impressed in equal measure, but now I have a chap in my life that just ‘doesn’t get it’. In fact, the last time he had a televised game inflicted on him, he quietly got a book out of his bag and left me screaming like a hysterical nitwit all on my own.
It’s an interesting and rather unusual situation to find myself in. I often tell him that he must be the world’s first football widower. We were out having a drink last week when a mutual friend spotted us and came to say hello. He asked what we were up to that evening. I couldn’t help but realise how odd it sounded when my boyfriend said, ‘Well, I’m heading home to get some housework done and have a nice bath, and Lucy’s off to watch the football.’ Our friend shook his head a bit and questioned this role reversal. Is that what it is, or have things just moved on a bit since mid-20th century?
Believe me, I’m still all woman; from my love for fake eyelashes and dealing with my cumbersome chest to my weepy tantrums and desperation for chocolate cake. And my man is no less of a man for not being interested in a few blokes kicking a ball about either. He has the body hair to prove it. Maybe it’s more that those age-old stereotypes have finally started to break down. Whatever it is, it’s quite nice having those differences of opinion when it comes to interests. It’s the best way to keep things fresh and it’s safe to say I’m yet to get bored – and that’s something of a first. I just hope he can handle me on the days that the match results don’t go my way. Euro 2012 is coming up and there he was thinking my PMS was bad…