Don't Count Your Chickens

The Pats just lost. I don't have to watch any more football this year.

I'm not happy they lost. I get caught up in the excitement like any good New Englander. Tom Brady is dreamy (although I could do without the Giselle induced hair), and Wes Welker is so cute and little. But, if really given the choice, I could live without football. And my waistline really doesn't need to be attending a Super B*wl party.

Last night, Hubby had a bunch of friends over and they were speculating about who the Pats would end up playing in the Super B*wl. I thought to myself, isn't that nice that he's just assuming we'll get there. Don't we have two playoff games to get through first?

I was reminded of times back in elementary school, when the threat of a good snow storm always brought on dreams of a snow day. My brother and I would plan all the fun we would have after we'd surely wake up the next morning to find out that school was canceled for the day. Too many times, we were so sure we wouldn't have to school, and we'd end up with just a two hour delay. What good is that? We took to saying "Don't count your chickens..." the night before those snowstorms as a superstitious good luck charm.

I should have said it last night.

Too late for the Pats this season, but not too late for this cycle, I guess.