Me: I really, really want to go to a Blackhawks game.
Boyfriend: Me too. I'll take you. We just have to wait...
Boyfriend: ...until they lose.
Writing this blog post feels wrong. Posting on social media seems stupid. Turning on final score notifications on my phone was absurd.
Logically, in the verysmall logical part of my brain - I know that my actions have no effect on the Blackhawks season.
BUT. The rest of me. The Italian part, the Chicago-transplant part, the unlucky-in-most-things part, the part that is currently full of cake and chocolate chips and extra spoonfuls of ice cream - is so sure that when the Blackhawks lose, its going to be all my fault. I will have done something wrong. Gone to the game, worn the wrong underwear, been in a bar (instead of in my house) watching it, started watching too early, been too sober/too drunk/too hungry.
When the Blackhawks lose, I will feel really bad about it. And while I recognize that that makes me a total lunatic - I can't help it.
And I know I'm not alone. That sound you hear, during every game, around the 18-minute mark in the third period is the city of Chicago holding its collective breath. Although, to be honest, I don't know if anyone has entirely let it out yet.
I'm mostly glad that after an entire Notre Dame football season with the same emotions and tendency to channel my anxiety into spinach dip binges - Boyfriend finally understands how it goes.
And if you think I am Not wavering on pushing the publish button, you don't know me. Or my insanity.