By years two and three, I’d made friends with a few of the other partners. I can confirm some of the girls I first met were very glamorous – although being a good three to four years’ my senior, it didn’t take much to impress my adolescent tastes. They invited me to ad hoc nibbles and tolerated my Sportsgirl wardrobe (pieces exclusively purchased on sale).
In year four, I attended my first Brownlow Medal. We were a late invite and I had about two weeks or so to prepare. I wore one of those dresses you can tie up thirty different ways, but it didn’t matter because no photographers took our photo and no heads turned our way.
The silver lining (or downfall, whichever way you look at it) to dating someone on a team that’s struggling to win is cameras never turn in your direction. It’s also the perk of dating a player in a team outside a footy-dominated state.
Regardless, my mum’s Facebook friends thought I looked “gooorgeous. So classy!” (Mum-speak for no boobs or bum on show).
At my third Brownlow attendance, I made a worst-dressed list. Granted, it was in a very questionable publication, but my brother took staunch offence and commented to refute how women like myself were just ordinary people who didn’t deserved to be mocked. I can honestly say the list didn’t affect me one bit – I liked what I wore and I liked how I looked.
When I tell people my partner plays AFL, they immediately assume I mean club footy. I guess because I don’t have thousands of Instagram followers, I don’t fit the bill for what they assume a WAG looks like.