The Mr. Yoy Media Blitz

Last night, Mr. Yoy appeared on ESPN2 to discuss the recent Washington Redskins trademark ruling. 

As a lifelong sports fan, this was a dream come true for him.  

He came home from work around 9:30 and I helped him pick out a tie so that he'd be TV perfect.  No husband of mine was going on national television looking like a schlepper.  He left the house a little after ten.  He was going to be on at 11.  

I had fifty minutes to make sure I had properly set the DVR to record.  It took me about one.  I had forty-nine minutes for my nerves to ramp up.

Mr. Yoy's nerves are usually cold as ice.  Nothing phases him.  Ever.  It's a quality I wish I possessed and one that I hope my children will inherit from him.

Please let me briefly illustrate the difference in our personalities.

Mr. Yoy's speech at his brother's wedding: Off the cuff.  No notes.  Nothing.  He gets up there with ease and gives a fabulous and funny speech.

Mrs. Yoy's speech at her brother's wedding: First, I drank an entire bottle of chardonnay.  Then I pulled out my extra large print, typed-up speech that I had rehearsed every night in the shower for a month before the wedding.   Who am I kidding?  I had memorized that thing.  I can still recite it today.  Let me know if you want to hear it, I thought it was fantastic.  Anyway, I broke out in nervous splotches all over my neck and chest.  I think I did ok, but Mr. Yoy was in the back coaching me to slow down the whole time.

So when Mr. Yoy casually fesses up that he's actually a little nervous as he's walking out the door, I know this is some serious sh*t.  It sends me reeling.  

Reeling directly to the pantry.  What can I eat?  What can I eat?  

I'm conflicted as I've eliminated processed carbs from my diet.  So those Stacy's Pita chips are just sitting there on the shelf giving me the big middle finger. 

I rip open the Trader Joe's dried seaweed and go to town.  Pathetic, I know.

I frantically text with Aunt Yoy.  She's nervous, too.  We are virtually stress eating together.  She berates me for stress eating things like a peach.

I pace laps around my precious ottoman until it's go time.

And then there is Mr. Yoy on my TV.  Basking in his nerdy love of trademarks and sports.  And he kills it. And I am so, so proud.


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