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From USA Today
Oh, no: Not another Super Bowl weekend!
By Linda Mathews

I first recognized the Super Bowl's overwhelming power in 1970, the year my final exam in contracts abruptly was rescheduled to accommodate the game.

I was horrified when my courtly law professor told us we might take our contracts test two days early. A delegation of our classmates, he said, had pointed out that the exam -- our first as law students -- was scheduled for the Monday after the Super Bowl. They wanted it held the Saturday before the game so they could enjoy the contest without fretting about a looming exam.

The only fair way to proceed, the professor said, was to vote. And so we did: The class' 12 women voted to hold the exam on Monday; the 137 men voted for Saturday.

As I crammed, desperate to memorize hundreds of legal cases, I actively hated the Super Bowl. I don't any more. Over 31 years, I've mellowed. Now I'm only indifferent, as, I suspect, are lots of Americans -- especially the women who are outvoted every year about how to spend Super Bowl Sunday.

The pre-game frenzy just leaves me cold. This must be how Jews feel about Christmas, how teetotalers in New Orleans view Mardi Gras. Everybody else is having a great time, and we're not included.

I can't understand why millions of people attend Super Bowl parties or plant themselves in front of their TVs for 10 straight hours. Usually, they're not even rooting for the home team; more likely than not, it was eliminated during the interminable playoffs.

It's clear, given how franchises move from city to city and players float from franchise to franchise, that owners and players feel no particular loyalty to local fans. So who can feel loyalty to the teams? My hometown, Los Angeles, hasn't had a pro team since 1995. And isn't the Baltimore team playing Sunday really from Cleveland? Doesn't this New York team play somewhere in New Jersey?

Female fans?

A few Super Bowl facts do filter through my shield of indifference, you can tell. I'm aware, for example, that the National Football League claims that female attendance at the Super Bowl is on the rise. USA TODAY reports today that 40 million American women claim to watch the Super Bowl and that 43% of the NFL's fan base is female. I've read the stories. I've even edited a few. I just don't believe them.

Who are these women? Unmarried ones, perhaps? Women so eager to win over some lunk that they'll don three layers of clothes, sit in frigid seats and smile when their dates spill beer on them? I know of no married woman who enjoys the Super Bowl; if one makes such a claim, I would demand she take a lie-detector test.

The mysteries of men

How could any woman enjoy a game that turns her active, energetic husband into a statue, sprawled on a couch every Sunday (and the occasional Monday night) from late August to late January, tuned out to everything in his own household? How could a woman respect a man who rises from the couch to scare the dog by yelling, ''Go! Go! Go!'' at a tiny TV figure sprinting for the goal line? How can she stand by while he indoctrinates his sons in this strange cult?

I've long envied a close friend, another Linda, who struck a prenuptial deal 21 years ago: She would never wear nail polish, which her husband detests, and he would never watch football on TV. Wow, did Linda ever get the better of that bargain.

My husband's favorite Super Bowls have been those won by the Redskins. Jay can recall, almost play by play, the Redskins' glorious 42-10 triumph over the Broncos at Super Bowl XXII. That was my favorite Super Bowl, too, because Jay took our sons, Joe and Peter, to San Diego to see the game. My daughter, Katie, then 3, and I stayed behind. We never turned on the TV. We read and napped and took a long walk to the park -- a perfect Sunday in my book.

This Sunday, I probably will have to work so some Super Bowl-lover can take off to watch the game. That seems fair. But if I can get off early, a couple of old friends and I are planning to celebrate Super Bowl XXXV by having a fancy tea and then maybe seeing a movie. The House of Mirth, the Edith Wharton tale about a woman tormented by inexplicable social customs, seems ideal.

My friends and I were all part of that same law-school class. We know how to hold a grudge.

Linda Mathews is the Cover Story editor for USA TODAY.

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