We are in the heart of summer, the humidity close to 100%. We are in the throes of shorts, flip-flops and little league baseball. We are missing Olivia Pope and Sheldon Cooper.
And then, out of nowhere, my husband provides two statistics about training camp and opening day. I sort of hear it, as a married woman of over 20 years does, and I make the required response (“WOW!”) as I continue cutting up watermelon and strawberries and hanging wash outside because IT’S SUMMER.
But after a week of turning on the TV in the morning, the countdowns recently provided ( 20 and 59, respectively) come rushing at me. For this is the channel that greets me, left on each night after I’ve gone to bed:
It’s July 13th. But someone in this house is ready for some football. And it ain’t me.
