Recently I had a date. Boyish good looks, medium height, of average build. Rugged [from afar], unshaven [from up close]. Big brown eyes, floppy hair, T-shirt, jeans, holes, creases – the works.
Oh and married.
Double trouble? Apparently not. For, despite his 1 out of 10 for effort, my internet-acquired beau and I had rather a lot in common. Six years and nine days of ever-so holy matrimony and two ever-so cleverly created children to be precise. So what was with the date?
Apparently it’s normal for marrieds to do “date night” these days [with each other, of course.] In fact, one could go as far as to say that it is indeed all the rage. Well, among my thirty-scraping-forty-something lot anyway. It’s all about sharing some “his and her” time amid the daily hum-drum, to talk [in complete sentences], to eat [in entire portions] and to perhaps even remember each other’s names [if you get that far]. Once a week, if you’re something special and play your cards right, or just once a month, if you’re an Average Annie like me and have no choice but to adopt more realistic rules of engagement. A few flirty texts and a recurring calendar invite later, his iPhone is synch-ed and date night is set. Ad infinitum.
Well, that’s how it’s intended to happen at any rate.
But in reality, let’s face it, what one actually gets round to doing is an entirely different thing altogether.
Co-joined in everything emotional and economic, from love and friendship to body and soul; from bank accounts and bad debts to mortgages and motor insurance, you’d think that marrieds see enough of each other, right? Is it not enough that we share the same bed? Is it not enough that we eat at the same table? Is it not enough that we made the same babies?
But enough is enough.
As it just might not be enough.
Apparently it’s normal to become caught up in life. [Alarm sounds. Get up. Get dressed. Wake kids. Dress kids. Feed kids. Slurp tea. Pack bags. School run. Drive car. Traffic jam. Work hard. Grab lunch. Afternoon slump. Work harder. Drive car. Traffic jam. Race home. Hug kids. Make tea. Feed kids. Entertain kids. Bath kids. Read books. Night night. Make tea. From scratch? Ready meal. Wash up. Tidy up. Washing in. Sit down. Watch TV. Washing out. Prepare bags. Clean face. And sleep.] So it’s little wonder that the Mr and Mrs’ of today’s world need a gentle kick up the derriere to make time for each other. To remove one-selves from the rat race. To renew and re-invigorate each other. To remember and reconnect. At the very least, investing in a baby sitter once in a while has to be cheaper than dreaded “D” word. In the long run. Worst case scenario.
Recently I had a date. With my husband. Vibrant city-centre venue, flicker of candle-light, full-fat dessert and a glass of wine. Parental chit-chat, work gossip and synchronised tap tapping on the iPhones. People-watching, clock-watching, a brush of one’s foot under the table. Half-price voucher code aside, what was a very agreeable evening was also much more. It was a revelatory experience in marriage management. And one that I would rather like to repeat.
Given half the chance.
[P.S if you’re reading this love, that was a hint.]