A few nights ago, Brian and I decided to indulge in a little one-on-one time and hire a babysitter for a date. We do our best to spend at least one night per month sans children – not because we don’t enjoy their company (although sometimes…) but because it’s good to take a pause and reconnect without being asked a superhero-themed question every 45 seconds.
So we went on our date. It was a simple, pizza and beer kind of night with no frills other than the fact that the shouting, gaggle of mini-toe heads seated near us were not ours to wrangle. Our phones were set to vibrate, only pulled out to check on possible movie times for later in the evening – which, by the way, were like impossibly late. I need to know whose Circadian rhythm allows for a 10:40pm movie watching experience?
Instead of checking out one of this summer’s can’t miss cinematic masterpieces, (I’ve decided that I’m saving my movie-going experience for Bad Moms at the end of this month. Who’s with me???) Brian and I opted for a quick trip to Sonic for ice cream and then a drive across town to a pre-4th of July fireworks show at a local brewery. We figured we owed it to ourselves to stay out until the kids were sound asleep and since Target was already closed, fireworks seemed like the only logical choice.
Brian pulled our car into the parking lot to see a murder of cars (that’s my “large quantity” term for vehicles, when they appear in such high volume that you actually want stab yourself in the eye) and we quickly shot each other the “I’m only doing this because it’s date night and we can’t wuss out on each other” look. We found a “creative” parking spot and made our way to the back lawn of the brewery to look for our friends.
Many of you know my husband, but for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, I must share with you that one of the things I love most about him is his ability to make any terrible situation his b*tch. So while I was nervously scanning the massive crowd, doing recon for potential terrorists, he had already needle-in-a-haystacked one of our old friends and was scouting out the best place for us to see the fireworks show.
As it happened, the best place turned out to be alongside some of our lovely friends and family and just behind two women who apparently had some sort of ocular malady that only allowed them to visually experience fireworks through their 2”x4” iPhone screens.
Of course, it wasn’t actually tragic, but man did it sure hit a nerve. So there I was, sitting criss-cross applesauce on the pavement, making not-so-nice, sort of over-my-breath comments about how ridiculous people have become with their compulsion to “share” every single moment of every single day, when my make-the-best-of-everything husband leaned over, laughed at my commentary and said “Oh, who cares? Don’t let it bother you.”
And this is why I married him. Because he is the rock that levels out my unbalanced scale. The one who reminds me that no matter what happens, people are good and life will go on. He’s the one who assures me that the fella who cut me off in traffic isn’t really a heinous S.O.B and that our kids won’t actually suffer longterm consequences if I don’t get their hair cut this week. That all will be well and even when it’s not, we’re in it together.
As we were leaving the fireworks later that evening (I may or may not have still been griping about those women on their phones), he squeezed my hand and said, “You should write a blog about that.”
So I did.