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An Open Letter To FIFA, the Other Woman in My Otherwise Healthy Relationship

11/05/2013 09:43 am ET | Updated Jan 23, 2014
AP

Dear FIFA,

That's right. I know all about you. All about your late-night rendezvous with my boyfriend, the way he manages to speak more passionately about you than me, how you've slowly become his sense of stability and mental release.

Do you think I don't hear you upstairs when I get home from work? I'm all too aware of the instant silence and the inquisitive and slightly guilty "babe?" proceeding the slamming of the front door. I know you're up there. I know you're turned on and just muted for the time being. And I know his hands were controlling you just moments before I walked in.

All the games you play are working -- you've got him wrapped around your finger, and his fingers constantly wrapped around you. He rushes home just to see you, turn you on and tell you exactly what he wants you to do. He needs some instant gratification? He turns to you. He needs a challenge? He turns to you... many, many times a day.

I get it. There are things you can do that I can't. I see why he's using you: you won't talk back, he commands and you obey, and you allow him to live out one of his ultimate fantasies. The games you two play and your never-ending role play come off as reckless and foul to a stereotypically reserved and feminine girlfriend.

It's not like he tries to sneak around. I'll hear him yell "spread out!" "get in!" and "fill in the gap!" from his room, without any courtesy or acknowledgement of my presence.

You have become the bane of my existence, FIFA, and you've slithered your way into his heart, like the other woman does, as a close second behind me. You are the the sneaking suspicion I have when he's not responding my texts, replying to my gchats or answering the persistent doorbell I ring upon my arrival.

Blaming only you, FIFA, would be misguided. I know there are others, many others, he chooses to spend his time with. Code names like WOW, GTA and COD don't disguise what happens behind closed doors; he knows all the tricks, the right buttons to push and is always ready for round two... or three ... or four. All he's looking for is to score, and they sit helplessly, letting him take his pick, and whichever one looks the most enticing is all too eager to meet his needs.

Your presence was easy to ignore at the beginning, but now you're everywhere I go. I see you in stores across the city, I hear him brag to me about his conquests, his friends have no discretion discussing you when I'm around and I even overhear them arranging to all meet up and all play together. I'm beginning to question which team he's playing for.

How can I compete with your history? You've been distracting boyfriends, guy friends, siblings and spouses since 1993, and the two of you have a connection that well proceeds our relationship. I can't tell if he goes back to you out of genuine interest or just for kicks.

I don't know what I've done to deserve this kind of secrecy and deception, but I know what I can do to end it. I'll use my natural competitive side to my advantage, and you know what they say: if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Hand me a controller. Game on.