Last night we were invited to go to the Rangers v. Yankees game with some of Jeremy's coworkers and wives. (Don't we just all love being grouped as "the wives.") Because what else would you rather do in 107 degree heat than go sit in tiny metal seats for four hours, right? Luckily, thanks to some probably damaging and devastating tropical storm south of us, the wind was blowing and the temperature actually dropped somewhere in the enjoyable 80's. It was actually pleasant---I know, it's shocking, a Texas night in August when it was cool enough and with low enough humidity to earn a "pleasant" rating.
I think living in Cambridge during law school with the Red Sox playing in our backyard for three years turned Jeremy into the biggest anti-Yankee fan around. Which is an unfortunate fact, since we went with one of the biggest Yankee fans around--he even grew up in Queens so he's pretty diehard. There were civil enough to avoid throwing punches while "the wives" were around. They settled on mocking the opposing teams' players whenever possible--and both of them agreed on mocking one New York fan with a mullet, American flag bandana, and homemade Yankee posters five rows in front of us. With all the taunting music and big-screen induced cheers, I was reminded how harsh and openly hostile stadiums and crowds are to the visiting team--they even boo'd a little kid hardcore when they flashed a live shot of her on the big screen wearing a NY hat. She'll be damaged for life and show up on Oprah one day blaming all those rednecked Rangers fans for ruining her life and forcing her to strut around in clear heels and tassels, trying hopelessly to earn some male approval. Or maybe she'll just stop wearing her NY hat to Rangers games--honestly, it could go either way.
And while the weather and company were enjoyable, the old crotchety men that were in charge of overseeing the escalators after the game were anything but. We got yelled at for not boarding the escalator quickly enough, for having more than one person per step, and our Yankee friend got majorly attacked for having the audacity to take a step down while it was moving. "NO WALKING ON THE ESCALATORS!"--and I'm pretty sure it wasn't just because he was a Yankee fan.
I also had the opportunity to school Jeremy a bit on some lessons in chivalry. We had to walk the 23 miles from the parking lot to the stadium (ok, it was probably only about 1/2 mile) and most of the time we were next to a busy four lane road with crazy road-raged Ranger/Yankee fans racing around trying to find parking while flipping each other off and yelling crap out the windows to each other. I suddenly had a flashback of a 10th grade sociology teacher of mine telling me how in our society, males are supposed to be the chivalrous protectors of their women. And how whenever you're walking on a sidewalk or next to a road, the man should walk closest to the road so in case the feeble woman should trip or stumble, he can help her without her falling into oncoming traffic. Or at the very least, if a driver loses control, I guess the man serves as a speed bump to slow down the car before it plows into the woman.
So I'm remembering this as I'm teetering on the edge of the curb by the busy road and I tell Jeremy that HE'S the one that should be walking where I'm at, and is he trying to get rid of me or something, etc. And he's all, "Yeah, my dad used to tell me the same thing all the time." Well, good to know it sunk in now throw me in front of that city bus, please.
Then we had to stop on the way home so I could pick up my car, errr I mean my huge minivan, since I had met him downtown to save time before the game. Lesson #2. Do not speed past your wife on the freeway doing 75, leaving her 5 miles behind you at 11:30 at night. Because the chivalrous thing to do would be to follow her, so as to make sure there no car problems, or crazy animals that cause her to swerve off the road and plunge to her death in a ditch. (We kind of live in the middle of nowhere--lots of wildlife roadkill.)
Do not leave her in the dust, because what if one of her very low tires that she has just pointed out to you in the parking lot five minutes before, decides to explode on the way home. Is that greasy, pervy semi-truck driver that eerily resembles the one busted on the Dateline predator-sting show we watched last week, is that really the guy you want pulling over to help your tiny, petite wife "change her tire"? (Ok. I'm neither tiny or petite, but it seemed to make that all the more dramatic...I'll claim literary license on that one.) And YES, my tire is low, but luckily none of these things happened last night even though Jeremy was home, changed, and halfway through an episode of Iron Chef before I even made it to the driveway.
So as his punishment for momentary lapses in chivalry (and for standing on my step on the escalator), I may just have to become a Yankees fan.