Boyfriend is off in L.A. on business this week, which means two basic things: 1) I get treated to a daily report about how he’s sitting in a hot tub on the beach with a beer and a tan, or lounging at the king-size catering table on a movie set; and 2) I get to watch the playoffs in peace. I know, it’s like we’re trapped in some sort of gender-stereotype reversal vortex in my living room: I’m typically arguing for the right to watch the game while he snatches the remote and relentlessly flips to Bill “If only I was as funny as I think I am” Maher or Crossfire (aka Idiots on Verbal Parade). Not to say that he’s not into playing sports- he’s one of those supremely annoying hyperathletic types that can throw a perfect spiral and kick a 50 yard field goal while rollerblading on one foot and hitting the perfect slapshot with a ruler. Meanwhile, I’m lucky if I can actually lob a stress ball across the full length of my office or successfully mount a bike without endangering the lives of myself and others. We played a one-on-one pickup game once, it was pure comedy – envision Yao Ming on the court with Mugsey Bogues (minus the abundant talent and actual basketball skills) and you have some idea. I figured out pretty quickly that my only prayer for playing defense meant hurling my entire body at his lower legs in a projectile motion, aiming for the knees.

But I do find it quite funny that I ended up with one of the few straight men in North America that isn’t obsessed with professional sports. His argument is that he’s fundamentally uninterested in sitting on his ass watching other men lock horns in some corporeal (and corporate-sponsored) struggle, which is a valid point for someone actually capable of holding his own in a physically competitive situation. But for the rest of us uncoordinated unathletic lazy slobs, spectator sports are a necessary outlet for our thwarted and frustrated innate desire to kick some ass. It’s essentially the Modified American Dream: the right to sit on your flabby tush watching the remarkable achievements of others while criticizing them (and their stats, and their college teams, and their mothers) at great length. Also, speaking for myself, I just like the idea of huge sweaty men running around performing great feats of athleticism for my amusement while I sprawl on the couch in a pool of Cheetos.

One situation I find highly amusing is when other men discover that he doesn’t follow pro sports. Male smalltalk tends to desperately revolve around the subject – hey man, did you see the game, what’s the score, Webber is such a pussy, the Mets will inevitably suck again, etc. Take sports away from them, and they’re left wandering in a socially inept purgatory of awkward attempts at conversation. We’ll be on a double date or a party and some swaggering alpha-male-in-training eager to display his encyclopedic knowledge of ERAs and batting averages will be crestfallen when he learns that boyfriend is unenthused about the topic. The occasional rebuffed sports fanatic reacts with hostility; one obnoxious devotee went so far as to suggest during a dinner party that boyfriend was, shall we say, less than fully masculine (whatever the hell that means) because he didn’t follow pro football. An ironic suggestion seeing as boyfriend had a good 6 inches of height and 30 pounds of muscle on this guy, who sported a prominent gut and impending jowls. I guess nonconformity can be an intimidating thing, especially to those with plenty of testosterone but no means of actually channeling it. As for me, I’m happy to smile sweetly and let him fight his own battles – just as long as I get to watch Monday Night Football.