Cheerleaders

Shortly after we got married, a person who saw our early-marriage up close told me I needed to be my beloved's cheerleader. I'm pretty sure it was her way of saying, "Stop being such a bitch!"  I lean to the corrective and fault-pointing-out-ish and that can look kind of... mean.

It probably is.

Almost 10 years later, I find I am quick to chastise myself for not being that cheerleader.  I think I actually believed her at the time. But I could never do it. There seems to be no part of me willing to take on that role. Tonight I figured out why.

Cheerleaders are idiots.

They may make great wives, but cheerleaders to me are the girls interested in being decoration instead of participants. They're the ones who chose their "sport" because they get to wear short skirts in front of boys. They're the ones who don't care what the play is, as long as they can spell it between clapping sequences.  It's possible I have them filed wrong, but alas, it's my filing system so fuck it.

So I don't cheer. And often I don't even do those little golf claps. I'm the one on the sidelines with my arms crossed, shaking my head slowly and saying "Really? Realllllly? that was your best effort?"  It's a miracle he hasn't quit actually.  And likely that he won't let me attend any of our children's sporting efforts.

But know this: my unwilling as I am to cheer, I am unrevocably on his side. Maybe too much. I want him to win.  I want other people to admire the awesomeness I said "I do" to (and then frankly, admire me for being smart enough to say it).  I want him to get the blue ribbon, the gold medal, the highest spot on the podium because I'm so sure that he is the best one out there. But he doesn't need me to cheer him on for that does he?

Does he?