Health, Wealth and Happiness

I was to guard the door.  To watch the stuff, to keep it safe.  Who would bother these guys,   or their stuff?  Would anyone take the socks that a sweaty guy in a furry Raccon suit had discarded?  We’ll maybe his iPod…..

But that’s where I was,  NEXT DOOR to the NFL cheerleaders.

There they were, all sparkly with perfectly curled hair and the great outfits.  Every guys dream, right?  Ahhh guess again.  They were all too little for my tastes.  Cute, but almost bird-like.  Not in a bad way.  I guess many, if not most men like them thin and barbie-like.

I was glad to help myself to the fully-stocked buffet in their room when I had gotten permission.  Heck, they didn’t eat anything.  Just a few melon pieces, and bottled water.

This is the big time.  The cheerleaders not only accompany the players that appear at the Por Bowl activities, they even…get this,    sign autographs.  Hmmmm.

I know, they are all people, not objects.  With thoughts and feelings.  It’s a job.  And like the players, the life expectancy for a cheerleader probably doesn’t extend into the thirties that much.

In addition to my duty guarding the room next to the cherrleaders dressing room, I got to stand on the field at the Pro Bowl itself, watching so that no one jumps the fence to come on the field. 

That put me smack dab in the middle of the cheerleaders while they entertained.  I even was pressed into duty watching the ‘boundary’ at the end of the line of performers so that some foreign photographer didn’t invade their space,   again.

Memo to all the pretend photographers in their 40s and 50s that got pics with the cheerleaders (instead of really douing your pretend job)  Get a Life!

Anyway, it is all part of the spectacle that is the NFL and the Pro Bowl.  All the creepy guys in the stands that had the cheerleader calendars and repeatedly called out their names to get pics are fans too.

As for me, I love the NFL.  My team the Bears just did not seem to send much in the way of participants; no mascot, no cheerleaders, and only a couple of players.  C’mon guys, work it out next year, OK? 

When it was all done, as the Blues song says,  “I’m going home, where women got meat on their blones.”