Date night means so much more than it did before kids.
Sure it was fun then but it was breezy, it was often, spontaneous and the location, the menu, the outfit weren’t nearly as important as they are when a date happens so seldom after having three kids.
The outfit. I usually try on a couple of pairs of comfortable, sensible, elasticized strides, followed by whatever jeans I had on before the mis-fitting until I ask myself, “Are jeans appropriate for this place?” The answer is always affirmative, now for a top. White button down shirt? URGH! Now I look like I’m on my way to any office within a fifty mile radius on casual Friday. This is a dinner out. I should feel great. When did all of the hangers in my closet get swallowed up by long-sleeved tees? When did Soula the seamstress replace all of my waist bands with elastics? I am going to have to improvise. Where are those scarves and pashminas? Jeans, long-sleeved tee, kick-ass pashmina and we have a winner.
I used to care about nicely manicured nails. Now if they pass the garlic/onion sniff test and appear somewhat clean, they’ll do just fine.
Hair. Eyes centred on the mirror, I do a slow turn, affixed on the ponytail line that encapsulates the curvature of my skull. Is it noticeable to others who aren’t staring so intensely at my spinning, owl head? What if I blur my eyes? Apparently it’s not an optical illusion, I can still see it both in and out of focus. The additional band from my skating hat is not helping matters. Out comes the straightening iron and yes, I know I should have gone with ceramic as per every woman’s recommendation but I cheaped out and went with the one that kinks the top and fries the ends. This will set off the long-sleeved tee nicely.
The first round of bread is scarfed before my scarf has left my shoulders and I’ve refused coat service. I’m wise to the coat checkers’ tricks. White coat doesn’t leave my side. Before the menus have arrived, before my seat has been pushed in by my gentleman courter. Ahem. This still hasn’t happened and we’re halfway through the first round of appetizers.
Why does it seem as though the chef had to drive to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for the two things we ordered? There was a time when the longer the meal, the more I enjoyed it. I guess when I eat most of my meals racing to and from the stove with serving trays for the kids and a wooden spoon clenched in my teeth, waving dangerously as a fridge door closer while I transport peas and mashed potatoes back to the grill, I have no patience for a lengthy wait. The kids taught me that waiting for a meal is sheer madness and will simply not be tolerated.
Wine. Two sips and I’m drunk. My hair finally looks straight. It’s just the right amount of alcohol and (outside voice) “Are these funhouse mirrors?”
Conversation. We used to discuss our hopes and dreams, retirement plans, vacations, of course the mandatory—what would we do if we won the lottery? We try to avoid the two topics banned from date night; kids and work.
So instead we talk about where the kids will one day work.
We talk about what Universities they might one day attend. Then we realize we’re not supposed to talk about the kids but the reference to one of the Universities reminds Greg of a deal he’s working on with the IT department at that school.
We’re not allowed to talk about work.
What would we do if we won the lottery?
Give it to the kids? Give up work? Hmmm. We managed to bring up kids and work even in that sacred, untouchable lottery winning conversation.
Heard any good mini-pops and/or Justin Bieber lately?
Kids music—can’t get mad. It’s music, not kids.
This isn’t working and my jeans are noticeably salt stained. I can smell the garlic under my fingernails and my frayed hair has been captured on every iphone camera in the place to be later posted to youtube.
More bread please.
