Here’s the thing about the World Cup: I. don’t. care.
It’s not because I’m American, or a girl, or more concerned with organizing my pencil-case. (Although, I would really like to know when my new batch of personalized stationery is going to arrive in the mail).
It’s because I’m at maximum lifetime capacity of soccer games witnessed. Between my two sisters and their gym class, recreational, travel, Olympic development, high school, college, and adult soccer teams, I have seen, literally, 17.4 million games.
And I still don’t know what off-sides means.
One of my cornea is webbing over, and I have a phobia of three-day weekends. You haven’t felt real fear, until you’ve heard the words “Round Robin” uttered again and again by enthusiastic parents. Are you aware the middle 80% of Long Island is actually just soccer fields? Are you even aware of that fact? It goes Brooklyn, Soccer Field, Soccer Field, Soccer Field, Soccer Field, Hamptons. Most of the exits on the Northern State just say “Fields 64-90”.
So this is the reason that I don’t care about The World Cup. Also, I made a pact with myself a long time ago, (I’m my own blood brother). There’s no room in my life, (or cabinets) for cups. I don’t care about the World Cup, or the Stanley Cup, or the Ryder Cup, or the Sprint Cup. I certainly don’t give a crap about Tin Cup, so don’t even ask. (Hear that Costner?)
Jock Straps? Irrelevant.
And I measure everything by counting to 4.
It usually works out. Besides, if the international community can’t even agree upon a standard definition, something’s fishy. It’s between 280 and 284 millilitres, …or it might just be 6 oz. No one knows for sure. I mean, why bother measuring at all? I’m just gonna scoop up some liquid with a bra.