I’ve been watching an astonishing amount of college football lately.

I’m not a huge follower of the game, but the home team is doing exceedingly well, and since I’m an active member of the Fair Weather Fan Club, I’ve jumped headfirst into the frenzy.

(Before all you “thick or thin” types pelt me with your “how can you call yourself a REAL fan?” barbs, I maintain there are DEGREES of fair-weather fanhood. When the home team is simply so-so, I’m still in their corner. It’s just that the DEGREE of my enthusiasm tends to be lower. It’s the difference between simply groaning at a fumble and pitching your shoe at the TV while you cuss to high heaven.)

I’ll admit my passion for pigskin has waned over the years. But there was a time when I gave new meaning to the term “die-hard fan.”

It was 1969. I was barely 13 years old. With family and friends gathered around the TV, I watched in disbelief as my beloved Jayhawks blew their chance to win the Orange Bowl due to having an extra man on the field. After the shock wore off, I burst into tears, bolted to my room and plucked my eyebrows into freakish samurai arches. (Hey, I was in eighth grade! It seemed like a perfectly rational reaction.)

This season, my fervor has returned. Not only am I watching my own team scrimmage from start to finish, I’m glued to the set for our biggest contenders’ games, including pre-game, halftime AND locker room interviews. I’m even reading the sports page.

Maybe that explains why I’m suddenly talking funny.

Earlier this week, a colleague asked how a meeting went. I heard myself say, “Well, it was a team effort. And, you know, there’s no ‘I’ in team. We’ve got a long way to go, but everybody gave 110 percent, and I was real happy with today’s outcome.”

On the phone with a friend the other night, I was sharing my plans for day-after Thanksgiving shopping with my daughter: “We’re coming to play. Obviously, it’s going to be a battle out there, but we’re in it to win it. As far as my daughter is concerned, this game is in her blood. It would take an act of God to keep her out of that mall on Friday. She’s a professional. We’re going to take it one store at a time.”

Just the other day, a stranger complimented me on my hair and inquired about my stylist. Without missing a beat, I replied, “Let’s face it, the guy can flat-out cut. He’s a finesse cutter; one of the best of all time. He’s right up there with the Vidal Sassoons, the John Friedas, the Jose Ebers. He’s the real deal, in a league of his own.”

She stared at me in horror as I absentmindedly tugged at my crotch.

Obviously, it’s starting to get out of hand. Before you know it, I’ll be buying face paint and crimson-and-blue wigs. I’ll memorize every team member’s stats and maybe – just maybe – leave my tailgate party and actually go inside the stadium to watch the game.

But you know what? Football fever is fun! And win or lose from here on out, it’s been a great season.

Of course, God forbid, if we should find ourselves in the loser’s column after the Big Game next Saturday, it’ll be a bitter pill to swallow. I don’t care about moral victories, but I won’t point fingers. I’ll give the other guys all the credit and say it just wasn’t our night. I’ll admit they made the big plays and we didn’t but insist we can still hold our heads high. I’ll figure it just wasn’t meant to be but declare it a great ride. And I’ll be really, really proud of our guys.

Then I’ll run to my room and tweeze my brows within an inch of their lives.