Date Night

April 24, 2012

in After The Honeymoon, Cheap Expectations, OldSchool

The Big Man and I have a standing date night. Every Saturday, from 730-9pm, we put down our computers, top off our wine glasses, and play a few dozen rousing hands of Monopoly Cards. Sometimes we go a little crazy and throw in some Rummikub too. By 9pm? We’re lights out.

What can I say? When the Little Ones insist on family breakfast every. single. morning, you have to go to bed early to be able to sleep in.

Honestly, it’s pretty perfect. I get to pretend he’s actually listening to me as I gloat about my winnings pour my heart out, and he gets to ignore me in favor of mastering the art of Angry Bird the other 6 nights of the week.

But a few weeks ago, I got a craving for some fried calamari.

And NO. There is NO NEWS that I’ve “forgotten” to share with ya’ll. So please stop staring at my food baby. She’s a bit self-conscious.

So we blackmailed our babysitters into giving up a Saturday night for us, I blackmailed the Big Man into agreeing to go see Hunger Games with me, and we broke out the gift cards for a big night out on the town.

It’s been a while since we had a night out on the town.

At least one not sponsored by a wedding.

And as I was getting ready, I couldn’t help but flash back to our date nights of yore. When he made sure to wear that green polo I love because it brings out the sparkles in his hazel eyes. When I spent hours dithering between the sexy, knee-high black leather stiletto boots or the sexy, 3-inch black leather heels. When we weren’t married/engaged/sure.

I was¬†naive¬†enough to allow him to watch my final preparations, sitting on the extra-long twin bed covered in the brightest color scheme I could find, fascinated by my artful application of just the right amount of mascara. Once I was done, we’d hold hands as we sauntered out of my dorm room and down to his waiting light blue ’67 Chevy pick-up.

He’d take me to a restaurant he’d carefully selected from his latest cache of gift cards and coupons, where we’d share an appetizer, a few bites of our meals, and decline dessert. After tipping the waitress enough to ensure a spit-free refill on our colas, we’d head off to the local theater. Not the big multiplex, but the smaller one that catered to students and the unemployed. $25 got us two tickets, a small popcorn, and another large cola. To share, naturally. By the end of the opening credits, the popcorn would be gone, and we’d move on to the candy stashed in the bottom of my purse.

And as I sat there last weekend, listening to the rustle of the Big Man’s cough drop wrappers as he dug them out of the bottom of my purse, wiped off the baby powder, and offered me my pick, it hit me.

Tonight’s date? Not all that different from my dates of yore. Save for a few less inches on my heels, and a few more inches on my skirt, we could have been going home to a child-less apartment to check our emails one last time before climbing into bed, exchanging a quick peck, and turning out the lights at exactly 10pm.

I could say we’re getting old. But I don’t believe there’s any “getting” about it….

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