So recently, Bill and I attempted a date night. Except when you’re in your forties and married over fifteen years it’s less like Date Night and more like Thursday.
At 5:30 PM.
But it’s not as if we’re senior citizens. I mean, we completely skipped the Early Bird Specials and focused on the words Happy and Hour. Just like college.
Except with even more happiness. Because we’re married now. For over fifteen years.
So we enjoyed some wine and split several greasy, starch-laden appetizers for less than the price of two cocktails in Las Vegas. See?
I was stuffed. Plus maybe a little drunk.
Still, this was Date Night. Or Thursday. And Bill suggested a nightcap.
I said, “Can you call it a nightcap if the sun hasn’t set?”
He didn’t think I was funny.
So I ditched ‘humorous’ for ‘helpful’ and said, “How about the Tipsy Goat?”
“We’re too old,” he said. “That place draws a young crowd.”
“At 7:20 on a Thursday?”
He thought I had a point.
So we slid into the parking lot of the T.G. (that’s what you call it when you suck at being cool) and Bill said, “Bring your ID.”
My heart swelled with the compliment.
Then he added, “Not that you look under 21. But they have a bouncer who cards everyone.”
Thus Date Night became even more Thursday-ish. And once inside, the situation didn’t improve.
“DANG!” said Bill.
“This drink sounds delicious. But it’s called a Margatini.”
“That’s not very manly.”
“Ah. But the word ‘dang’ is? And ‘delicious’?”
He didn’t think I was funny.
So I flagged down the waitress.
“My very masculine husband would like a Margatini. But could you call it something less feminine? Like the Manly-tini?”
Somehow that didn’t sound right, either. But this fact was irrelevant because soon the music started and it was too loud to hear anything.
“I like this song!” I may have shouted.
Bill may have answered, “You’re right! These sweet potato fries are delicious! I mean yummy! I mean -”
“DANG!” I may have interrupted. “You’re manly!”
And perhaps our ears throbbed. And maybe lines formed outside the ladies room. And most likely a couple of my ex-high school students sneaked past me to smoke cigarettes on the patio.
At some point, I probably said something like, “This Cabernet’s going to my head.”
And he probably said something like, “Let’s go home and have sex.”
But instead we probably fell asleep watching re-runs of House Hunters International on HGTV.
Because all the cool kids want a taste of the real estate market in Dubai. On a Thursday.
I love romance.
Especially the romantic kind.
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