The bittersweet “I told you so” moment

“I told you so” is never a good thing. You knew, deep down, that things were going to go to hell. You had no proof, not really, but you knew. You could see it coming. So you voiced your opinion, loudly. And, of course, you were ignored. No one wants a know-it-all. No one wants advice. Not really. Not unless that advice reaffirms what they wanted to do in the first place.

But hey, you thought, it’s my job to at least state the obvious. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t? So you go right ahead and say it. “THIS HAS TRAINWRECK WRITTEN ALL OVER IT.” or “This can ONLY end badly”. It was your duty. You still believe friends are there to do more than go to lunch together every two weeks or discuss things like nail polish and how that new haircut would look on me. You’re quite sure friendship is meant to be something more. So, you say it.

Your friends don’t agree. In fact, your friends may push you away. It’s okay, you tell yourself. You did what you had to do. You’re not about to compromise who you are just to keep a friend. If they don’t like you the way you are, so be it. It’s best to find out sooner, rather than later.

And, then …it comes. Whatever you warned your friend about actually happens. There is a big (metaphorical) crash. Few survivors. Lots and lots of tears.  

Now, there are two options here. Either your friend comes back to you crying, miserable, asking for forgiveness because, well, you did warn them, and now they’re heartbroken, and so on, in which case, you can’t really bring out the “I told you so”. It would be too cruel. You don’t want to rub salt on the wound, and…well, being right does you no good. You didn’t want to be right; you wanted to AVOID this situation.

Or, of course, your friend….well, that person who was once your friend …never comes back. You hear about what happened from someone else. You feel a little bad, because, YOU DID WARN THEM, but you never get a chance to say it in person. You’re not friends anymore, you see. Just because you were right, and you were brave enough to actually …eh, say it. 

“I told you so” is just one of those phrases writers use. One of those that you only get to use when it doesn’t count, when your sister ate too much candy and then feels sick and, of course, you have to make fun of her. Or when you wear very high heels and then your feet are killing you at the end of the night and your boyfriend is looking at you like, well, you knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?

It’s one of those things you never really get to say. Not when it counts. It stays, hidden, inside you, even though you really, really wanted to bring it out. So, you write about it. Sing about it. Blog about it. That’s just the way it is. 

You never really get to say it. Except here: 

“I TOLD YOU SO.”

Crónica de un sufrimiento anunciado (O, #YoSoyMareaRoja )

Me levanto en la mañana pensando en ponerme algo rojo, para apoyar, y todo eso, (la propaganda de Balboa me puso sentimental, lo admito) pero tengo una reunión importante y el rojo no es un color que grita seriedad, (esto de ser abogada te da muy pocas opciones en cuestiones de seriedad) así que me conformo con zapatos rojos. Algo es algo.

 

La calle esta de locos. Parece que todo el mundo tiene su mente en el partido. Voy haciendo una lista mental de todas las cosas que tengo que hacer antes de las nueve, no vaya a ser que me quede algo para la mitad del juego. El tiempo se me pasa volando. Antes de que me dé cuenta, el Club de Amigos Pague por Sufrir entra en sesión.

Miro la televisión con algo de asombro durante los primeros quince minutos. Quizás me equivoque de canal, porque, este no puede ser mi país, ¿verdad? Esta no puede ser mi selección. No, tengo que estar soñando. Seguramente todavía es martes y no me he despertado.

Porque mi selección no toca el balón tan bien (a veces ni siquiera tocan el balón, son los reyes del pelotazo). No trabajan ordenado (en Panamá las ideas de orden están un poco desvirtuadas). Los he visto muchas veces. Estos no son. Excepto que sí son. Me lleno de emoción. Quizás, todo este tiempo, han estado jugando al despiste. Era para desequilibrar a los rivales. Quizás si tienen una idea. Tal vez esto no va a ser un sufrimiento.

GOL, GOL, GOOOOOOL!!!! Vamos ganando. No puedo ni moverme. No me atrevo a respirar. No tengo mucho que decir. ¿Y si lo salo? No, no, mejor me quedo calladita. Y luego viene otro. Grito. Me duele el brazo izquierdo. Casi que me va a dar un ataque al corazón (o eso o la diferencia entre una pesa de 10 y una de 15 es bastante más de lo que pensé). Vamos ganando. Fácil. Estamos jugando bien. Los ticos no llegan.

Me permito imaginarme el próximo partido. A Jamaica le ganamos seguro. Podemos hacerle buen partido a México y Estados Unidos. Que traigan a Honduras! Y, de repente…mi defensa, mal parada. Gol de Costa Rica.

Intento convencerme de que nada ha pasado. Trato de volver a mi ensueño. Pero no lo logro. Esta película es repetida. La he visto antes. Más de una vez. NO me gusta mucho el final.

No cambio la televisión, pero prendo la computadora. Intento distraerme mientras escucho el juego. Quizás así el tiempo pasará más rápido. Y, casi. Ya quedan solo diez minutos. Ay, no. Los últimos diez. Los minutos sospechosos. (sospechantes, diría alguno) No miro el reloj, no miro, no miro, no miro y… ¿dónde está la cámara? ¿Qué paso?

Ah. Gol de Costa Rica. (Totalmente perdonado el camarógrafo de RPC, al cabo que ni quería ver el gol). 

Carajo, ya lo debí haber sabido. David Samudio le trata de meter emoción al asunto, quedan seis minutos, vamos Panamá, y todo eso, pero yo ya perdí las esperanzas. (Los jugadores parece que también). Ni me acuerdo de mi ensueño. Ay, mi Panamá. Ay, mi Panamá. 

Pita el árbitro. Mi corazón todavía no se recupera. Me duele todo el cuerpo, como si yo hubiera estado jugando. Hoy fui a hacer ejercicios, ¿verdad? Este dolor no es solo de ver el juego. Ver a la selección  es malo para mí, ya lo sabía yo. Demasiadas emociones fuertes.

Me prometo a mí misma que la próxima, la próxima no me lo tomaré tan a pecho. Desprendimiento. Solo es un juego. JUEGO. El nombre lo dice. No es de vida o muerte. 

Pero, ni yo misma me lo creo. ¿Cuándo es la próxima jornada de sufrimiento? El Club de Amigos Pague por Sufrir se declara en sesión permanente. Vamos, Panamá, que se puede!

5 things I hated about Super Bowl Sunday

I bet this post won’t be like anything you’re expecting. I’m a girl (yes, I’m sure of it), so I guess you’ll expect some talk about the commercials, the Half-Time show and/or the food I ate during the game. Or, maybe (God forbid), I should be talking about Joe Flacco, and how he’s so dreamy and all that crap. (But, honestly have you seen the guy? He’s not even that handsome).

Well, if you are, I’m sorry to disappoint. I’m the wrong kind of girl for that. Really, I am. I was not wired that way. Sure, I enjoyed the few commercials I did see, and Beyonce rocked the Half-Time show, but I wanted to watch the game. Yes, the game. I wanted to have conversations about what kind of coverage the Ravens would use against Kaepernick, one of those running QBs people talk so much about lately. I wanted to talk football. 

And, on that note, here are the five things I hated about Super Bowl Sunday (I did love some things, though. Maybe that deserves another post):

1. A Super Bowl without my team. Yeah, it was a good game. But I wasn’t an emotional wreck. I wasn’t crying, screaming or yelling at the TV. I wasn’t worried. I knew the players, I knew the coaches, I even know a little about the history…but I wasn’t really invested. I didn’t care who won or lost. My team was not around. And there’s nothing like a Super Bowl when your team is involved.
2. Being forced to listen to 30-minutes of fill-in from the analyst because the lights decided to go out. And I thank the LORD that I wasn’t forced to listen to it in Spanish. The FOX analysts in Spanish are the worst thing in the history of sports. Don’t get me started about ESPN in Spanish. Oh, no. Even with the right analysts, though, thirty minutes is a little too long to have to listen to anyone not say anything relevant.
3. Ray Lewis. Sob story and all, I think people make Ray Lewis out to be a hero, and I’m not sure he really is. It’s funny how we tend to forgive our athletes. Ben Roethlisberger and those girls he supposedly raped? He won a Super Bowl, so he’s forgiven. Ray Lewis might have killed two people, or, at least, he knows more than he’s telling, but he’s all about God now, and he is retiring …so let’s root for him to win a Super Bowl. Eh, no, thanks. I don’t go for that.
4. Being told that Super Bowl weekend is for guys. Women get the chips and the salsa. Make sure the beer is cold. Or, if you want, you can be a cheerleader, honey. You’re not required to have an opinion on the actual game, at least not one based on actual football-related reasons. Pick a team based on a guy you think is HOT, and then “cheer” for them by looking at the TV once every five minutes. Guys may say women who like sports are brilliant, but, deep down, they all seem to want a woman who PRETENDS to like sports. That way, they can still look smarter. 
5. That the NFL season is over. Sure, my team lost a couple of weeks ago, but there were still games to be played. Now it’s a whole lot of nothing for a months and months. There’s no baseball till April. February is just …one of those months. I’ve never been a fan. I like choices. Being able to watch more than one sport. I like September. Yeah. September is the perfect sports month. A little bit of everything.

I guess now it’s time to take a vacation, or something. A vacation, yeah. Sounds about right.