WHERE AM I, AGAIN?

We ‘Mericans live in a civilized society. Or so I thought until I went to the WVU-Maryland game this weekend.

It all started happily enough. Our friends, Lucy and Craig, came in from Maryland for our annual football game adventure. They get to visit with us and their son, Dylan, (who, we are proud to say, is a mighty Mountaineer like his Uncle Mike and Aunt Robin) while enjoying a sporting event. I had advised Lucy and Craig in advance that if either showed up in Maryland garb, they would be sleeping in the shed. But no fear; they own more WVU garb than I do.

We met Dylan at the Walnut St station and rode the PRT to the Medical Center. Side note to the one guy in the UK who reads this: PRT (Personal Rapid Transit) is WVU’s above-ground subway system. Tailgating was well underway and the stadium was filling up. We strolled through Tent City and got in line to get through the gates. As there were about 1000 people trying to get through five ticket gates, I began to get a little annoyed at the pushing and shoving. I made a comment to my total bad ass husband(PTST) about this not being the Hajj (too soon?) and people didn’t need to stampede me over when there was still an hour until kickoff.

Then the line cutting began. At first I was able to let it go, as it was mostly wasted college kids trying to get to their friends or just get through the mass of people to find more beer. But as grown-ass adults in the back of the horde began to see this, they began moving around the corner and cutting into the middle of the pack in front of me. After about three times of this my blood was boiling, and when the fourth drunken asshole tried it, I put my arm out and stopped him and said, ‘’Yeah, get to the back of the line.’’

And here is where it got interesting. Instead of giving it the ‘’Oops, my bad” and wandering off, he began to argue with me. I am no delicate flower, standing 5’9’’ and weighing enough to survive at least a few months of the Zompoc if I didn’t eat another ounce of food after today, but this man had at least four inches on me. He appeared to be about forty years old and could have done with skipping a few meals of his own, and perhaps the couple of Michelob Ultras he had apparently consumed before our little chat. Not “a couple” like he had two; “a couple” like he was on Cops. (I know the brand because he was still carrying one during our discussion.) And his response to me was thus: I had no right to be so upset about people cutting line. I needed to chill out. It’s just a ball game; we are all trying to get to the same place. My response was a big fat smile and a nice loud “EXACTLY!” All while I continued to block his drunk idiot ass from getting in front of me and wondering when people had lost the ability to recognize irony when it slapped them in the face. Probably somewhere around the tenth beer was my guess.

In the end, he fell into line behind me and I stewed myself the rest of the way into the stadium. We made it to our seats without further incident, but little did I realize the afternoon of confrontations was not yet over. Next up: directly behind us were sitting a group of adults with three small children on their laps, approximate ages 2-5, none of whom appeared to have their own seat (although stadium rules strictly state every person must have a ticket; I Googled it). Everyone knows kids love to run, and jump, and hop, and it’s not really important to them where they do it or the fact that their still-developing motor skills causes them to be off balance during these activities. A lot. Especially when the totally awesome Mountaineers are blowing out pitiful Maryland and the game is not interesting to watch. Although I don’t think such young kids are capable of spending four hours watching any sporting event, regardless of the excitement, but that’s another story.

Fortunately, while Mike and I were discussing how much blood we would be peeing from having our kidneys kicked for four quarters by the marauding toddlers, Craig sprang into action and asked one of the adults to please stop the kids from using our backs as seat cushions and punching bags.

So all was quiet and smooth until we left and were at the PRT station to return to our car. Of course there was a line because there were over 60,000 people in the stadium, and each PRT car holds about 20 people max. We promptly fell in line behind the crowd and began to wait, and then the line cutting began again. This time it was a group of drunk male students who attempted to wedge their way in front of a pillar to become first in line on the platform that broke my straw. I was done. I was officially and totally done. I said, “No, no, no. Back of the line, Son.” Yeah, apparently young drunk men do not like to be referred to as Son. The one I spoke to was too drunk to come up with a coherent response, so while he lit a cigarette, his friend stepped in–draped in his invisible cloak of irony repellant–to tell me that we were all just trying to get on the PRT. Once again, my response was, “EXACTLY. So get to the back of the line.” More back and forth ensued, but by this time Craig had positioned himself between us, and that was pretty much that.

The end result is that I am unallowing myself to go into large gatherings anymore because of my inability to keep my big mouth shut. Not that the inability to control my wicked tongue is anything new; I have always been a mouthy broad. And I have always feared that someday my total bad ass husband (PTST), who has learned that I prefer to fight my own battles and does not interfere with the process, is going to end up punched by some angry man that I have pissed off with my venom. But this weekend I learned that we now live in a society that a man (for lack of a better term) will fight directly with an old woman. WTF? We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore. Or even Lincoln Financial Field.

So I’m just waiting for the World War Z; I’ll get my revenge then…

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