Boogity Boogity! Tales of a NASCAR Fan Girl
I am surprised to find I have become a diehard NASCAR fan.
Seriously, people, I’m into Broadway and Britcoms. I watch Food Network and DIY. I drink mochatinis and craft beer. I am not a Duck Dynasty fan.
How in the world did this happen? I’ve been married to Pookie, a major gearhead, for 28 years, so maybe it was inevitable.
Countless Saturdays and Sundays spent watching this or that race on TV must have started it. I mean, it’s hard not to get excited when Pookie’s shouting encouragement for Dale Earnhardt (may he rest in peace) and in later years for Dale Jr.
And then I attended a race. A Sprint Cup Eliminator Round Race, no less. We rented headsets to listen to the chatter between drivers and crews. We stood for the start, kept an eye out for crashes, and stood for every restart. Jimmie Johnson won on a second attempt at a green-white-checker finish after so many cautions they had to add seven laps to complete the race.
(Jeff Gordon should’ve won, but that’s a rant for another day.)
I was hooked! I bought a 24 hat. I giggle every time Michael Waltrip opens his mouth. I did a happy dance when Ricky Stenhouse Jr. lost the mullet. I cringe if Carl Edwards wins because I’m afraid he’ll miss his signature back flip and break his neck.
I’m told that for $2,000 you can spend the race in your favorite driver’s pit box. I actually considered it. We are a single income family and pay out of state tuition for Chewie and still I considered it. Insanity!
For now I’ll just pay for good tickets and decent parking and enjoy the races, but I’ll keep dreaming about someday having the loudest seat in the house.
Nervous Knots 