Jákðbs Ný Bættærí

The greatness of Thursdays is enormous. Beside the 3 days included in the weekend, Thursday is my most favorite day of the week and in one special Thursday in February it trumps all months. There are a various reasons I enjoy this day. A few of them are: The Office is on, an occasional NFL game is on, NBA on ESPN, and reruns of Intervention.


None of those reasons will even come close to what my Thursday is all about. My enjoyment of Thursdays comes from one reason... a piece of mail. If that piece of mail were to come on Monday, then yes, Mondays would be my favorite day of the week. There is more than just one reason I enjoy this piece of mail. It allows me to do so much more than just open it. I get to do things I normally wouldn’t do, things that would normally make me uncomfortable, or even vulnerable. I’m sure you are thinking its Maxim Magazine, or the Victoria Secret catalog. It could be National Geographic or those coupon adds for $.99 pastries from Safeway. Nope to all of those possibilities. This item is the one, the only, most greatest magazine of all time….. Sports Illustrated.


At 4:30 on ever Thursday night my plans are already made. I gently remove the magazine from the mail box. I then set it down neatly on my dining room table. Next, I turn on Spike TV with the hope that there will be machine gun fire for manly ambient noise. (Now this is the part I would not normally do, but given the manly surroundings I have made myself it is null and void.) I then pour a small amount of bubble bath into the tub and then yes, I turn on the faucet. Then I gently wrap my SI into a bath towel to protect its delicate surface, set it on the floor next to the tub as it fills. Once to the capacity of the tub is to my liking, I slowly guide myself into the tub as to not splash droplets of water onto my precious.


I generally read the whole entire thing with exceptions to the junk about girl sports. I finish up with Rick Reilly as his insight into the sporting spirit is astounding, plus it’s the last article of the magazine. When I feel I have successfully achieved my sports high, I gently return the delicate magazine back into its bath towel. Then with one final thing I would never do on any other day of the week, I give myself a very manly manicure.

Labels: Sports