Embracing my inner Victoria Beckham

Yesterday was busy, some might say stressful. What with talks of job searching, fruitless rug shopping, a crying session in bed due to tiredness and stress, an unwelcome latte buzz that lasted hours, the returning of bookshelves we recently bought and then promptly decided that we hated, the lighting of candles in a dark and rainy graveyard, and, finally, a quick shower and a fast walk to what would be the pleasant ending of a not-so-pleasant day: Erik's football banquet.

That's right, I said football, meaning soccer. Saying football instead of soccer is one of the few Briticisms I've picked up while living outside America. I don't say trousers when I mean pants, or pants when I mean panties, or biscuits when I mean cookies, or pudding when I mean cake, but somehow, the transition from soccer to football was easily made. The thing is, I have a much stronger relationship to pants and underwear and cookies and cake than I have to soccer or football. My weak interest in sports made it fairly easy to switch from an American sports vocabulary to the British one that Erik uses. It also helps that soccer/football in Swedish is fotboll. Of course, none of this means that I'd continue to call the sport by its British name if I moved back to America. That would just be embarrassing.

But for now, football. Erik plays for an intramural football team in Malmö and last night was the end-of-season banquet. We spent way too much money on mediocre food and drinks, but we got something in return. No less than three prizes between us! Yes, us. Not only did Erik receive certificates for best backfield player and perfect attendance at practice, I got a prize too: "Årets Spelarfru" or "Player's Wife of the Year."

I could say I was surprised, but I'd be lying. I've had my eye on that award since last year's banquet when I first heard of its existence. It wasn't so hard to get, really. I didn't bring orange slices for the team or scream at the referee. I just watched the games (the ones that weren't late and cold and rainy) and apparently, I did something else; I put up with Sunday afternoons without Erik, or so the motivering says: För ditt engagemang vid matcherna samt för att du lojalt genomlidit en långs säsongs ensamma söndagseftermiddagar. Because of your involvement at the matches and because you loyally suffered through a long season of lonely Sunday afternoons.

Being named Årets Spelarfru led to a further accomplishment: giving my first "speech" in Swedish. Even the whisky sour I drank didn't calm me enough to prevent me from shaking and bumbling over my words, but I said what I wanted to say. First, that Everwood is shown on Sunday afternoons so it was totally okay that Erik wasn't home. Also, that in the beginning it was the Spelarfru award that got me to the pitch (oops! another Briticism) but it didn't take long for me to turn into a real fan--the kind who even continued to talk about the night's match at the dinner table.

I'll be at the sidelines again next season to cheer on my little backfielder and his teammates, but I might have to skip a few games. I have a feeling it's considered vulgar to try for the Spelarfru award two years in a row.