My husband is a huge NASCAR fan. Every weekend from February to when hell freezes over I’m treated to the roar of overpriced Chevys in my living room. His birthday is coming up this week, so my kids decided to get him tickets to a race. Problem is, he wants me to go with him. And they say romance is dead.

NASCAR racing holds all the fascination for me of waiting in the gynecologist’s examination room, wearing nothing but a paper dress and goosebumps. I’ll be sitting in the same position until all my butt fat oozes into the grooves in the aluminum bleachers. (At the racetrack, not the gynecologist’s.)

They say that NASCAR is a national pastime. Take that, Ireland. You may have your soccer hooligans, but we’ve got Billy Bob and Lureen getting drunk, picking fights, and urinating in the infield. There just aren’t that many sports in Europe that you watch from the top of your motor home.

The thrill of watching cars make approximately 1,052 left turns, can only be matched by the Canadian pastime of curling. The object in curling is to slide “stones” across the ice and try to knock your competition’s stones out of the goal area. Curling has sweepers who try to melt the ice enough in front of the stone, so it will keep moving at the speed of slug in the right direction. Here you have the gentle slapping noise of the brooms, and three other people in the stands. After all, these athletes have mothers.

But I digress.

I can just be thankful that this is a night race. The only other race I’ve been to, I got heat stroke and passed out on the man one row down. This was a major NASCAR offense, since I made him spill his beer. But to show my love, I will be sitting next to my sweetie, rooting against Jimmy Johnson and Kyle Busch for his sake. If my boy, Carl Edwards wins, there will be a back-flip and a totally inappropriate show of affection from his mother in the winner’s circle. It’s the redneck way.

If my husband thinks that a race would be a romantic evening out with me, he better at least be willing to fight his way through line to get me a funnel cake. That’s when you know it’s love.