So today I went out to my cousin’s new apartment and helped her move, a little. I qualify that because I’m not well-suited to moving people’s stuff in general, because I got bad feets. My feets is so bad, after half an hour of shifting a few boxes and standing around trying to be helpful they are already starting to grumble. But I figured I’d be as helpful as I could be under the circumstances which in the case of moving usually consists of going to fetch lunch, which I did. I got two pizzas and some soda and ice and a six pack of decent beer. The pizza was gone in fifteen minutes and the beer was prized away for that moment later in the evening when it all catches up to my cousin and she will be in need of some
I’m just going to say, she has a lot of stuff. Like, a lot. Of stuff. And also? Third. Floor. Apartment.
Anyway, after the stuff was all moved into the apartment or onto the handy covered landing outside her door, some cousins departed for home. Some other cousins had to drive out to where yet another cousin was playing rugby, to drop some stuff off to her. She goes to school kind of far away and happened to be in the area for a tournament. I decided to tag along, in part just to get off my feets.
By the way, rugby is awesome and even though I had to sit on a plastic bag in the chilly bleachers trying not to listen to a girl behind me somewhere, I had fun watching. The reason I was trying not to listen was because she had had the tremendous foresight, not to call it UNMITIGATED GALL, to bring a ukulele. She could neither play this ukulele nor could she sing, yet she felt compelled to try her hand at both, in public. In case this was insufficiently unbearable to standers-by, the song she assaulted us with was Katy Perry’s “Firework.” I don’t actually dislike this song but let’s just say that it doesn’t really translate to ukulele all that well.
Anyway, while we were at the match and at a Starbucks afterward I observed the lone male cousin engage in a curious pastime. It began as we squelched our way down the hill toward the field. We crossed paths with a fellow somewhere within ten years of our ages (we are all mid 40’s ish) who was drinking a beer from a bottle and wearing a baseball cap bearing a sports team logo. Cousin Tom was wearing a sort of a sweatshirty thing bearing the same logo and called out to him, HEEEEY STEELERS! And then they had a friendly and familiar conversation about the Steelers and some other teams, as though they were actual friends and not just two guys crossing paths at a rugby tournament. I thought this was interesting but didn’t think much else about it until a short time later, still at the rugby field, when it happened again. And then at the Starbucks, with the tall, silver-haired manly-guy barista, except this time it was the barista who noticed the logo on Tom’s outerwear and initiated the conversation.
Is this a guy thing? Because I can’t really think of something comparable amongst the ladies. I mean, we might notice each others’ Coach purses or something, but it just doesn’t seem to me that it would consistently generate this kind of spirited interaction.
Then again I don’t think there’s the same kind of heated partisanship among handbag enthusiasts as among sports fans. Maybe if it were two ladies wearing roller derby t-shirts? Ooh, what if they were fans of rivaling teams? It might be kind of awesome.