I’m just going to come right out and say it: I love SEC football. I do. I just don’t understand it. Like… at all.
Holding? Face mask? Pass interference? It’s all just footbally gibberish to me. I mean, I know when we’re losing, and I definitely know what a touchdown is (I’m not a complete idiot), but whatever happens between those six-point moments? Absolutely no earthly idea.
I know there’s math involved—something about downs and yardage and conversions—but that’s always puzzled me because, usually, there’s also alcohol involved. And I don’t know who thought combining math and bourbon was a good idea, but it’s not. Just ask my friend who once showed up to her algebra final with a bourbon and Coke in hand. (Might’ve just been bourbon. Hard to say. Either way: not ideal.)
Anyway, yeah—I have no clue what’s happening on the field. The only real difference I can see is the uniforms and the giant logos on the grass. Sometimes there’s a cowbell or a mascot with a sword or a tree or something (why, Stanford? WHY?), but beyond that, it’s chaos in coordinated outfits.
That said, I do love the atmosphere of an SEC game. The Grove? Heaven. The fans? Unhinged in the best way. The food? Deliciously over-the-top. But the actual game? My back is always killing me in those stands, especially when we’re parked near the student section (aka the Back 9), where they don’t allow seatbacks. It’s the SEC, not medieval torture—can we please upgrade?
Which brings me to today. We’re flying direct to Memphis on American Airlines this time—neither the Biscoff airline (Delta) nor the Stroopwafel airline (United). (I have no idea what American serves, but it better not be pretzels. I’ve been through too much for pretzels.) From there, it’s the usual drive to Oxford.
(I know, I know—you were hoping for a layover in Fort Myers or at least a dash through Atlanta so this post could involve drama, caffeine, and tears. Sadly, not this round. Try again next trip.)
And in case you’re wondering if we’re staying somewhere normal this time, the answer is… absolutely not. This time, we’re glamping. As in, staying in an RV.
Yup. An actual recreational vehicle—with a composting toilet (possibly), a full-size bed (definitely), and a bathroom that could double as an airplane lavatory. Which is why I’ll be making the daily trek to my daughter’s apartment to shower and get ready—right in the middle of her roommates’ pre-game circus. Every morning, every night, before every event, there I’ll be: trying to flat-iron my hair while someone’s blasting Luke Combs and another is applying eyeliner. Meanwhile, I’ll just be trying to find my concealer and my will to live.
Now, I am a grown woman who sleeps in a king-size bed. I will occasionally stoop to a queen if I must. But a full? For two people?? Absolutely not. My husband has already been warned that he will be pulling down that weird little RV dining table thing that all RVs pretend is a “second bedroom.” (It is not. It’s a hostage situation with throw pillows.)
For the record, last time we were in Oxford, we booked an Airbnb that—surprise!—was also occupied by the hosts. Like, while we were there. It wasn’t bad—we had our own room and bathroom (because not having that would’ve been pushing it), and the hosts were truly lovely people. So lovely, in fact, that we’re planning to stay with them again next year. It was just… unexpected. Like booking a dinner reservation and finding out you’re eating in the chef’s actual kitchen. While he’s making meatloaf. In sweatpants.
Anyway, should be a blast. I’ll keep you posted… assuming I have cell service. Or a flushing toilet. Or the ability to sleep diagonally without dislocating something.
Absurdities and Fires 