For the love of sports (or fiancé)

As might have been hinted at in this blog before, I'm not overly excited about sports.
This lack of excitement also extends to sporting events, sports related tv shows or really anything with the word sports attached to it.
Physical exercise has always failed to appeal to me and much like me during gym class in the glory days of high school, it seems that in my genetic setup the gene that constitutes competitiveness has gone awol.

Which is fine with me. I don't pretend to be concerned with my lack of physical fitness and I figure that the amounts of money I'll need in order to unclog my arteries and replace this in red wine marinated liver of mine sometime in the perhaps not too distant future will balance out nicely with all the money I've saved on gym memberships, sports bras and protein shakes through the years.

So until recently, sports and I co-existed in a mutual understanding that we not bother each other. Sure, there were times when I felt sports overstepped the line, deleting episodes of Grey's anatomy from the tv-guide in favour of some ice hockey semi final (just how important can something with the word "semi" in it be anyway?), and sports in turn I'm sure wrinkled it's nose in disgust at my rare and flawed attempts at spin cycling or (worse), anything requiring hand/eye coordination.
But for the most part, we got on, leaving each other to do whatever it was we were doing.

I say until recently because it turns out that the man I'm marrying has a rather passionate and loving relationship with sports in general, and Australian football in particular.
At this very moment I'm sitting on the couch in the lounge room with head phones on and music turned up to a potentially lethal volume.
On the floor to the left of me is previously mentioned man banging his fist on the floor and shouting things like "Go Blues!!!", "Ball!!!" and "Bastard!!!". All of these with no less than three exclamation marks. Hence the ear phones.

Which I just now took off because I saw some rather wild hand gesturing going on out of the corner of my eye. Turns out, they came with a rather colourful audio commentary.

Again, that inside voice chanting:
"This is the man I choose, this is the man I choose..." and the realization that my relationship with sports has been altered against my will and now more resembles the one of a wife and her husbands mistress.
And knowing that this particular mistress is of the sticking-around variety I will turn a blind eye.

Cause that's just the kind of of wife I'm gonna be.
Apparently.