WAGs

I wouldn’t want to be a WAG — not really. It seems like a lot of work to be camera-ready, when I’d much rather be lounge-around-ready.

The one aspect of dating a professional athlete that truly fascinates me is that the players are apparently on the road all the time — and on training and travel days, you’d have the entire house/condo/castle/mansion* to yourself, if you wanted it that way.

That is fascinating. I’m sure I would miss him, especially if he’s a hunk, but imagine having a whole mansion to yourself. This mansion wouldn’t be MFH beige-and-gray. The walls might be off-white, but there would be pops of color. (Don’t ask me which colors — I haven’t even picked out our wedding colors yet.) It would be maximalist-minimalist, with a small-ish number of big-ish eccentric artworks and pieces of furniture.

Nothing too ostentatious — and no sculptures. I don’t want anything that couldn’t be knocked over, and I don’t want anything that’s difficult to dust or to clean.

(I’ve thought a lot about the sculpture situation in this imaginary mansion, I know, but it pays to be prepared. What if he’s a good player and has lots of trophies? I’ll need to dedicate my energy to figuring out how to get those dusted.)

I’d want to live a simple life. I would be an uncomplicated WAG. I wouldn’t ask for designer stuff, because I would rather wear plastic Walmart bags fashioned into a dress than to wear any Coco Chanel. No, thanks.

I would fall asleep in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, with a fake fire burning in the electric fireplace, and a book open on my lap. I’d read twenty pages at a time, and I’d drink a few cups of masala chai or cold brew, and I’d call my man and make sure he knew how grateful I am.

I would be a WAGG — a wife (and/or) grateful girlfriend. Especially on road match weekends.

* This is a game of MASH. I’m going to live in a castle with a Premier League player. We’re going to have 7 kids and drive a tractor. 🚜💨