My eyes only, never my heart. So there, God & ESPN.

With genuine respect for all the men (real and fantastical) in my life, I’d like to share a story called, Why Professional Athletes Start Thinking They are God & ESPN’s Gift to Women.

I would first like to say that I am not a girl who scopes out men at all times. Not when I’m by myself, not when I’m with Significant Man, not when I’m with my girlfriends, not when I’m with the gay men. Never. I know it makes me somewhat boring, but I’m just not that girl. I’ll admit that I have a bit of a weakness for athletes when they’re out on the court/field/ice. But still, if I’m at a game, I’m not there to look at men. I’m there to scream, cheer and watch a game. Also, I happen to take some pride in not being one of those girls who contributes to the tragically inflated egos that result from Why Professional Athletes Start Thinking They are God & ESPN’s Gift to Women. And no, the Dirk thing doesn’t count. His ego is just fine and if you try to argue with me, well then you will lose.

So a couple of weekends ago, I went to a Stars game. Sure, they were probably going to get their asses kicked by the Colorado Avalanche, but a simple fan like me is just happy to be at a game. Especially when I’m sitting third row from the glass and 10 ft. from the penalty box. Eye contact range.

So there I am, sitting next to the Boutique VIP who so generously shared those great seats, yelling for the Stars, making some noise, wearing green. But I’ll be damned if within the first ten minutes of that game, someone wasn’t sent to the penalty box for fighting – a certain #15 of the Colorado Avalanche. And y’all. As soon as he took off his helmet, revealed his sweaty blond hair and skated into that penalty box a mere ten feet away, I took one look at the blue-eyed, 6-ft warrior on ice (oh yes I did write that) and my eyes popped out of my head. Popped. Out. Of my head. I nearly bruised Boutique VIP’s arm and knocked her out of her seat, screaming, “LOOK AT THE HOT GUY IN THE PENALTY BOX! LOOK! LOOK! LOOOOOOOOK! HE IS HOT. HOLY, BLOODY HELL, HE IS HOT!” God bless the people sitting around me for not throwing me out on the ice. Especially since he was sent to the box a couple more times (#15 is a hell raiser) and they then had to hear me yell, “MATT HENDRICKS. HIS NAME IS MATT HENDRICKS! #15!” and “HIS EYEBROW IS BLEEDING. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING SO DAMN HOT?”

In one afternoon, the girl who never scopes out men reverted back to a boy-crazy teenager. And another pro athlete was wrapped up in a bow and dropped in the lap of my eyes. The tag attached said, “Dirk, Matt. Stop lying to yourself. YOU ARE ONE OF THOSE GIRLS. Love, God & ESPN.”