So. The Rugby World Cup. Over it yet? Or am I a traitor to the nation for even suggesting it?
If rugby is a game of two halves then I'm holding out for the second, preferably the closing minutes.
And I can't help feeling that as a ticket-clipping member of the host country, I'm not alone in thinking this.
The World Cup is a bit like an overdue baby - the gestation is so long, the anticipation so protracted and the build-up to the moment so great that by the time the thing actually arrives we're all just a little bit over it.
All of us were thrilled when we were selected as the host nation.
But months of agony and wrist-slashing angst over what, where and how has left many of us wondering if the bang is worth the buck.
Shuffling school terms, diverting traffic and taxes, building great edifices to entertain the sort of beer-swilling, cussing foreign tourists whom any civilized person could reasonably be expected to cross the road to avoid all seems just a little bit much effort for not quite enough return.
But I'm disappointed in myself for feeling this way. I thought I would be like a kid before Christmas, beside myself with anticipation and expectation, joining office sweepstakes and hanging flags and bunting from the car antenna.
Instead it was with a sense of ambivalent surprise that when I asked when the World Cup started, I received the news that it was today.
Where were the flags, the roughly-painted signs of support nailed to garden fences, where was the patriotism, who stole the sunshine and all the team spirit?
I want to care. I really, really want to, but I absolutely don't.
And if we're honest as a nation, I think it's fair to say I'm not alone in admitting this. The way I see it, I just have to keep my head low along with the volume on my television and before I know it, the party will be over and we can all get back to a life that doesn't revolve around a small leather ball and fit men in tight shorts (okay I'll admit there are some redeeming incentives).
The only fly in the ointment is 90 minutes of my life on September 18, when I will find myself sitting on the sidelines of the France versus Canada game pretending like I give a damn.
The only thing worse than not caring about the World Cup is paying good money to be ringside and still not care.
A while ago when I thought I might yet develop some sense of sporting pride, a girlfriend spontaneously in a fit of patriotism bought us tickets to watch a local game.
Now I fear I'm going to be the only person in the entire stadium paying top dollar to sit at a rugby match where the highlight will be the hot dog at half time.
Given it is impossible to open a newspaper or switch on any broadcasting or communication device at the moment without being inundated with all things rugby, it is a little like an own-goal for me to be feeding the hungry monster by filling up my own column writing about it.
But the supporters of the Cup have monopolised possession of the ball so far, so I see it as my civic duty to represent the silent minority among us who are feeling World Cup fever just as much as everybody else but in a way that's making us rather sick and tired. Eva Bradley is an award-winning columnist.