NOTE: Posting this entry in a timely manner, necessitated an abbreviated shorthand of sorts in the form of this acronym: IANMTU which means, “I am not making this up.”

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Jimmy first proposed to me at a car racing event so I was eager to return to the glory days when he asked me to go with him to Sunday’s NASCAR race at Texas Motor Speedway. But that racing event was NOT NASCAR.

NASCAR is the Big Kahuna of motor sport events.

For instance, advanced race preparation is entirely different. Before this race, I invested in a mani-pedi and exfoliating face peel. I also bought new sunscreen.

I shoulda invested in anything with Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s face on it. Or a tattoo, because that is de rigeur for racing women. IANMTU  (Just a joke mom re: the tattoo.)

Pre-race preparation is also entirely different. If the party known as “the wife” (i.e. “me”) is not ready and cheering loudly at the appointed departure time set by “Race Fan Dad” (i.e. Jim), said Jim will sit in a chair with his hat on staring at “the wife” as intently as a dog eyeing a tasty snack positioned on a high kitchen shelf. Impatience also increases non-verbal warning methods: drumming of fingers, fidgeting, sighing, repeated requests “to help” as in “do you NEED any help?” “can I HELP you DO THAT” “would it HELP if I knocked you over the head and dragged you to the car?” IANMTU

Jim’s race retinue is also markedly different now that he is a “married man” (not to be confused with “marked man.”)

In the dark, cold days of his bachelor-again-hood, Sunday’s race meant actually camping out with other men on dirt stakeouts from Friday night until Monday morning. IANMTU Always a Racing Renaissance Man, Jim rented his own “Porta-Potty.” IANMTU. This emancipated him from communal lines and unnecessary small talk with strangers. He also had no need to succumb to what I observed to be Nascar Chivalry: a man allows a woman to precede him in line for the communal “Porta-Potty.”

Now married, Jim is racing’s pampered poodle: he slept in a hotel not adorned with either a number or a “best” in the title, ate a fiber-rich-heart-healthy breakfast, drove a rented SUV, carried one petite cooler filled with beverages fit for any age, and wore sunscreen.

This, I am positive, guaranteed a fun-filled race day…if only we could GET THERE. It seemed the entire DFW Metroplex was in mass evacuation to Texas Motor Speedway by any vehicular means necessary.

It is here, ladies that you MUST heed my warning: bring at least 3 magazines, one Fashion, one news, and one Southern Living. Do not deviate from this warning. The Southern Living is especially helpful for its obvious content but also it distractibility quotient: not less than 2 times, when I plastered it on my passenger window, it provided enough stunned surprise in a fellow driver to allow Jim to quickly maneuver for a better place in traffic. IANMTU

And the traffic is monumental. It took us 2 hours to crawl 6 miles. I am NOT joking. In addition to magazine reading, I was also able to catch up on my “Read the Bible in a Year” plan, sail through the “verilies” and even progress through the “begats.”

Once safely parked next to a truck with duck-tapped, brown Hefty bags (IANMTU)

We flounced through the burgeoning crowd and rented our little personalized communication system called “fanbrain” or “fanthang” or something like that so that we could hear the race as it roared passed us.

Our seats were thankfully in the perched shade (God is alive and loving us!). Tethered to each other via the “fanbrain’s” black umbilical cord, I was able to hear the bogity-bogity dude, the driver talk to his team, and so many commercials for Amdro that my ankles started to itch in empathetic reaction.)

Jim testified earlier in the morning “once you hear the roar of the engines pass you after the checkered flag drops, you will feel in ‘in here.’” He did this while pounding his chest so emphatically I almost stopped getting ready and called 911.

But, as usual, he was right. The sound was thrilling! The crowd was excited yet extremely well-behaved. In all honesty, I have seen worse behavior at Day 1 of Nordstrom Rack’s half-yearly sale when they roll out the Skinny Jeans in double-digit sizes.

We made friends with our fellow-race enthusiasts. We ate many types of food on a stick. IANMTU We took tons of pictures and I began to adopt race car lingo: I experimented with using the words “pit” and “caution” as both noun and verb.

I even shared a recipe with a hearty woman sporting an arm tattoo that read  ”Car #3 in our hearts forever.” IANMTU

Jim says I can go again to NASCAR. But only if I learn not to yell “Go, Danica” when they drop the checkered flag.

Again, IANMTU

 P.S. We did go to church Sunday before the race (just so can rest assured, Daddy Bill, Mom, Cousin Bill, Cousin Little Bill, Bill Jr., Cousin Kathy, Big Bill, and Cousin Billy)