Defending Date Night

We're not Irish.  But we did have a date night planned for St Patrick's Day, and not because we had desires for frivolity in the green.  Because that's when our cousin - Oliver's Grandcousin, as we call her- was available to watch the wee tyke this week.  Would we like a night out on Thursday?  Why yes, thank you, we would.  See you at 5:30.

But Michael had a very unceremonious software upgrade issue that surfaced, or rather, didn't surface, at quitting time.  I heckled him in regular 30 minute intervals to try to figure out if we were going out at all. 

"You can go out on your own," Michael suggested, sadly stuck at his desk.  "Oliver's taken care of; go to a movie.  Go to Barnes and Noble."

Normally, I would be quite fine and even excited to go out on my own.  Pick whatever movie I wanted, put the butter-like liquid that Michael hates on my popcorn, or browse the stacks of B&N without needing to worry about finding my husband later.  But I was tired.  Really.  Really.  Tired.  I have just finished my Prednisone therapy, and Prednisone makes me a little crazy.  I either sleep fitfully waking every 10 minutes, or sleep so hard that I cannot wake myself from dreams that involve interpretive dancing with Justin Bieber no matter how hard I really, really try.  I forgot to give myself a little slack, too, for still recovering from my flu-bronchitis-sinus infection whammy.  It's been a while since my athsma has gone this haywire, and I forget how exhausting it is to be wheezing all the time. 

So I quietly pouted while looking at movie listings, not finding anything worth my depleted energy to see.  It was too late for half of the movies anyway.  I called Michael again.  Around 8pm, he determined that he could leave the office. 

"Do you want to pick something up or go out?" I asked, half wanting to sack out in pajama bottoms with take-out from BW3s.  Okay, more than half. 

"Whatever, doesn't matter."

Great.  I was no closer to a decision.  If we were to go out, I'd be up later, we'd have to wait for food, and-

"Let's go out," I suddely said out loud, ignoring the conversation in my head.  "Applebees."

Oh yeah, baby, livin' it up at Applebees.  We are a fancy sort.  But you know what?  All I wanted was a 2 for $20 deal at a place that can deliver decent food quickly.  And not have to drive more than 7 miles to get it. And not care about the sorry excuse for fashion that I wore in a polar fleece zipped jacket.  It was green, so there.  I pulled up to Applebees, and in a last-minute attempt for self-care, ran lip gloss over my kisser.  I was going to go on a date with my husband, fatigue-and-frump-be-damned.

We had a lovely chicken dinner, until Michael looked up at the front door and stared.  "Monkey suits," he mumbled.

And then they came: a gaggle of twenty-or-so boys and girls in their adolescent prime, in formalwear, swarming, dramatic, sitting on each others' laps, yelling across the room at each other, hormonal and oblivious.

"Check please," Michael said, devouring our dessert in a valiant attempt at enjoying chocolate while getting the heck out of there as fast as a couple of 30-year-olds could carry themselves.

Our date night lasted less than an hour, but I was grateful to have defended it.  My tired self in my tired clothes still glittered a little, if only in the lip gloss.  I'm not Irish, but I am very, very lucky.