Groupie?
ReeNoun
I had to google him.
The name, that is, of the NFL player who was scheduled for a promotional appearance within walking distance from my job.
The internet is fed a steady diet of everything. His career stats weren’t the only thing that came up. Apparently, he had “allegedly” been involved in an adulterous scandal two years ago. That must’ve blown over, because he now boasts a fiancée who happens to be a blonde skinny mini. How cliché.
From my office window, I kept periodically checking for a mob of fans that never quite became a mob at all. The line never grew to more than 20-30 people at a time. It was comprised mostly of males sporting beer guts and their sons who would probably be beer gut owners themselves someday.
I decided to walk over, just in case the line started to fan out. Almost immediately, I gained the attention of one of the guys working the event. He appeared to be overseeing the autograph line. After looking me up and down, he said, "YOU’RE A GROUPIE, AREN'T YOU?"
His comment was loud enough for the people in front and behind me to turn around. I was offended and yet sadly, I wasn’t entirely surprised by his accusation. It wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of being the G-word.
I worked in sports for almost a decade. How many times had I, a front office member at the time been mistaken for someone looking to score? I wondered again for the first time in years, why couldn’t women love sports platonically just as much as men? Why can’t women want to get autographs or photos with players without also wanting to take them to bed? Just because we show appreciation for a player does NOT mean we’re ready to get naked with him!! I started thinking how truly unfair that is.
The truth of the matter is: (You might want to sit down for this) If you’ve been around athletes, especially the rich ones, you know how morally corrupt and disgusting they can be. You know way too much. You know that they are never the sweethearts media tries to make you believe they are. Sure, they are absurdly fit and some are worth hundreds of millions of dollars but the sad reality of a WAG (wives and girlfriends of pro-athletes) can be just plain messy.
Messy, I am not. In fact, I was conservatively neat in a cardigan with a cami/tank underneath and loose slacks. I wore wedges not heels. My hair was down with loose curls leftover from a recent night out. I didn't feel like l looked "done up". I even put on a ball cap of the player’s team, that I had intended to get autographed (and then give as a Christmas gift).
GROUPIE, the word had started to gnaw on me. Was my red lipstick and gold hoop earrings too much? Wait! I’m not a groupie, so why am I now questioning what I had done to be accused of being one??!!! I had no plans to seduce… what’s-his-face. Not now or ever. I wasn’t after financial gain, status or tickets!
“GROUPIE: A woman, usually underage, who seeks to achieve status by having sex with musicians, roadies, security or other band-related guys. ”
I decided I would play offense but by then I was too rattled. My underarms had that moist feeling. I responded to the accusation with a careless laugh. Dude pressed on anyway, “Well, you're not married.” He pointed to my hand and said, “So you must be here to get something signed for your boyfriend."
Oh, okay, I get it now. This idiot liked me, so he decided accusing me of being there in hopes of making an NFL player my F-boy was the best way to convey that to me. Mmm--K.
Well, at this point, folks, I’m annoyed and there is heat rising from my back into my shoulders in a quick wave. (God forbid I take off my jacket and reveal even more of my figure.) Two guys in line tried to intercept in front of me as I’m trying to cut away from the prior conversation. Once I tell them, “I’m next." They back off but by now I wasn’t next, I was up---that very second. Mr. Millionaire NFL player had his muscular chai tea latte hands clasped in front of him… waiting for me. I put my cup of hot cocoa down (don’t ask). I approached him.
“Will you sign my hat?” I asked quickly while whipping the hat off my head so fast that I managed to free one of my gold hoop earrings in the process. It went flying across the floor in front of us. I had to bend down in front of him and grab it. Fumble. I felt like an idiot. Someone commentated it, “We have earrings flying!” He—the NFL player waited...patiently with no look of annoyance. This couldn’t be the first nervous explosion of energy he’d seen a fan exhibit, but remember I’m not really a fan. I’m just someone who works in walking distance, who put his name in Google just before I came over. It felt like slow motion as I lunged to grab the earring from the floor . Suddenly, I was up right in seconds. Heat and blood were now consuming my face. He signed my ball cap and then took a picture with me. We smiled at my pet pig phone case as I leaned in, careful not to get too close.
Thank God, that's over.
As I was gathering my hot cocoa cup (don’t ask), freshly signed hat, runaway earring and lanyard, he said, “Enjoy the rest of your evening."
“Thank you, you too.” I couldn't even look up at him. I think he knew I was a little flustered or maybe, worse yet, he just thought I was a groupie.
