You probably know about some sporting event that’s supposedly taking place this weekend. I heard people talking about it at the post office.

I must confess that I really don’t follow sports at all, except to reply “Yay!!!” online when my friends post rapturously about how their favorite team just won the big pennant-trophy-silver-cup-gold-medal-championship-belt-ring-plaque-laurel-wreath-bowl-mug-vase-prize. I can’t keep them straight.

Personally, the closest I ever came to a gold medal was using Gold Medal flour to make glue.

But I don’t disdain people who devote time to sports — especially, televised sports — even though our world here in beautiful Southern California is filled with an endless list of other things to do.

I certainly understand why my college roommate, who now lives in Green Bay, Wisconsin, has become an avid football fan. Let’s ponder her situation. It’s Wisconsin. In the winter. I mean, what else is there to do except root for the Green Bay Packers? (And what is a packer anyway?) Well, the Internet (which of course is never wrong) says you can go ice skating, skiing and snowshoeing, but I happen to know that all of those involve freezing weather, so you can count me out.

I have a propensity to admit things in this column that I generally don’t share to anyone but you, lovely readers, because they’re embarrassing or just plain weird. And I am embarrassed to admit that I have no idea who’s playing in the Super Bowl on Sunday. Nor do I know who’s performing at the halftime show. There’s really no excuse for that, because this football game has been the topic of conversation all around me for weeks.

But I guess it’s the same reason that my young adult son — Cheetah Boy — can never remember which day of the week he’s supposed to put out our garbage cans, even though it’s allegedly been his weekly job for 22 years. He just doesn’t care.

Now, here’s something else I need to confess: I want to be invited to a Super Bowl party.

I don’t want to go to a Super Bowl party, you understand. I just want to be invited. Unfortunately for me, none of my friends hold such gatherings or, if they do, they don’t invite me.

One thing I like about going to a party centered around television is that nobody expects you to make small talk. You can sit on the couch next to your host’s third cousin, eat homemade bean dip and guacamole until it’s coming out of your ears and if anyone tries to converse with you, you just say “Shush!” As if you actually cared about the game.

I always find making small talk at parties to be stressful, even though I’ve chatting people up as part of my reporting job for 45 years. Don’t you agree?

I mean, how many times can you talk about that morning’s fatality on the 405 that jammed up all the traffic? I find it exhausting to talk to strangers about inanities. Plus, for me, it reminds me of work. Plus, I’m not beautiful, famous or rich, so after a few minutes, my victim always wanders off in search of someone who is. Not the best way to enjoy a party. I’d rather pretend to watch the game and occasionally irately shout “Offsides!” as if I had any idea what that means.

They do have offsides in football, don’t they? When Cheetah Boy played high school football, I did read up on the sport so I wasn’t totally clueless. I used to take my “Football For Dummies” book to the games. That way, when the guy on the field in the striped shirt started doing what looked like the macarena, I could look up and try to grasp what he actually meant.

I preferred when the boy played baseball, because that’s a sport I actually sort of vaguely understand. Plus, we have two major league teams right here around us, so someone’s always filling me in on the latest.

I still remember being a little kid, and stopping off to watch my friend play a pickup baseball game in a vacant lot. He encouraged me to pick up the bat and try to hit the ball, drawing snickers from all his friends except me. I didn’t really know what to do, but when someone threw a ball at me, I hit it. Then, everyone started yelling “Run! Run! Run!” I just looked around the field and then at my friend, confused, and said “Run where?” It seemed like a perfectly logical question to me.

And it perfectly sums up my relationship with professional sports.

Do I want to go watch the Angels or Dodgers play baseball? Do I want to go watch one of the football teams that infest this region, even though I can’t remember their names? Depends on how many snacks and $18 beers you’re planning to buy me. I’m not spending my own money on those overpriced vittles. If you have a luxury box, that’s even better.

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