Confessions of a NASCAR Widow

Now that the NASCAR season is in full swing, I have lots of time to myself. It isn't that I don't think Denny Hamlin's cute. I just feel no attraction to watching his car, or anybody else's, get new tires every 30 minutes. I do, however, experience a moderate amount of curiosity over whether Tony Stewart shaved before the race. And did you know Jeff Gordon's wife is supposedly pregnant?

Why do guys love NASCAR races so much? I'll place my bet on the testosterone level seeping through their TV sets. Just watch them. Every time one driver signals another to get out of the way by forcing him toward the wall, our guys lean forward in anticipation. Clearly, it's one outlet for the would-be road rage they don't dare express while commuting.

You know for sure you're a NASCAR "widow" when your guy asks you what's for dinner (or supper) half an hour after he consumed everything on his plate. And remember, gals, to avoid bringing up any major decision during the race. I guarantee he'll have no memory of it 15 minutes after the winner collects the checkered flag and manages to soak himself and anybody else within 10 feet in Coke, Pepsi, or beer.

Don't be surprised to find strange articles of apparel strewn around the house. That protrusion from the bill of his newest cap is most likely a miniature gas tank. The new ring on the family telephone is pure NASCAR, too.

Most women show a lot more interest in NASCAR personalities than they do in the cars. Not so with men. When I brought up trading in my old Toyota, I had to fight hubby's insistence that Chevrolets were a better choice. Just look at all the problems Michael Waltrip's had qualifying his Toyotas this year, he reasoned.

I doubt that there's a woman in the United States living outside a cloistered religious community who doesn't know who Dale Earnhardt, Jr. is. Most of those under 90 can reel off several names of popular NASCAR personalities in one breath, typically, Junior, Gordon, Jimmy Johnson, the Busch brothers, and Kevin Harvick, just to name a few. Sometimes there's a flicker of recognition at the names of Jeff Burton, Matt Kenseth, Mark Martin, or other drivers.

Have you seen the ladies in the TV commercial who are so ga-ga over Casey Kahne that they total his car? Funny, but I can't even remember the product advertised. If Casey Kahne showed up on my doorstep and offered me a ride, I wouldn't squeal and gush. Instead, I'd pop the hood of the old Toyota and ask him to take a look.

Some women about to become NASCAR "widows" say they feel threatened by the hotties in tees and short shorts hanging out in the infield . . . er, pit area. Not me. My guy is so busy watching for red hot brakes, he doesn't have time to notice them or their outfits. Besides, sooner or later, one of them is bound to get oil or grease in her hair. Try to wash that out with conditioning shampoo, honey!

Unlike real-life widows, I expect to get my husband back at least part-time by the end of June. This is when NBA playoffs end. In the meantime, I figure he's in danger of jamming a finger from endlessly punching the remote while he toggles between basketball and races. The last NASCAR race occurs about the same time Santa brushes off his red outfit. But maybe I'll get lucky before then and the battery of the remote will conk out right after the singing of our national anthem.

You never know.