Last night, my husband and I had a night out on the town without kids and I had an epiphany; I am not a fan of date night.
Hold back your horror. I’ll explain. I absolutely love spending time with my husband. He’s smart, funny, and wicked sexy. It’s all of the other trappings of date night that I don’t enjoy.
First, there’s getting ready. I gave myself a pedicure, because my hooves were looking rough and I didn’t want to expose them to the world without at least sandblasting the callouses.
Then, I spent a good 10 minutes debating the merits of showering and shaving my legs. I had taken a power yoga class that afternoon and I think I last shaved about…. well, see that’s my dilemma. I have no clue when I shaved last. I also spent additional time sniffing my shirt to see if I could get away with wearing it for a few more hours.
In the end, I didn’t shower or shave, but I did change shirts, apply a fresh layer of makeup and engulfed myself in a cloud of perfume. I looked pretty good, if I do say so myself. And I am almost 100 percent certain I didn’t stink. Okay, maybe 95 percent.
I had secret hopes that my husband would travel from work on one side of the town and then drive me, but, alas, I was forced to drive my own carriage.
You know, my husband is usually pretty chivalrous, but in this instance he failed me. I wanted to gaze upon him adoringly without children asking me for water or goldfish. I also wanted to enjoy a martini or two, and you can’t exactly do that when you are driving.
We ended up at a comedy club and had a blast. The comedian was inappropriate and awesome. And there were mozzarella cheese sticks. The sticks were my favorite part.
And it was all downhill from there.
Afterward, my husband wanted to go out and get crazy. I wanted to go home and pop some corn and watch Orange is the New Black. You can see how this might have caused some conflict.
After a long day of work and kids, I feel like I have been beaten like a circus monkey. Getting me to a comedy club is probably the most you can get out of me. If I could wear my jammies to the club, I might think about extending the night, but since I can’t, well, my couch wins out every time.
My poor husband. All he wants is to feel like a man instead of a kid-toting donkey.
I tried to rally and he offered to drive to the casino on the other end of town. And what did I do? I fell asleep. At 10:30. I suck at dates.
There has to be something in between couch surfing and partying until 2 AM. I don’t know what that is, but until I figure it out, I’ll be in my jammies trying to figure out how to make things up to my husband.