Quarterly or bi-annually, my husband and I drug a local, CPR certified teenager, prop her on our couch, place a remote next to her peaceful body, a wad of ten-dollar bills in her hand and, we peel out of our driveway leaving a cloud of dust only rivaled by the Wicked Witch of the West’s smoky, sulfur exits.
Where we are going is never important. In fact, we generally make no plans other than to escape. Our goal is to have a cocktail and quickly inhale our dinner before we get “the” phone call that all of our children have inexplicably come down with a mysterious and sudden case of scurvy.
On the off-chance that the night is uninterrupted, we wander the streets of our town, looking for adventure and excitement that ends at a reasonable hour because, let’s face it, we are yawning before our appetizer is placed in front of us.
I am a professional level wine drinker, but, last night, with make-up and sensible heels on, I felt invincible, like the 20-year-old I once was. So, I ordered a fancy, tequila cocktail. It arrived dressed in pink in a glass that belonged in my collection. Alas, I had only come out with a clutch. Always bring the diaper bag. I took one sip and I felt the fire in my throat burn outwards to remove any pesky body hair. I’m not going to miss that mustache. Conclusion, my tequila drinking days are over. Rest in salt-rimmed peace, my friend.
After garlic filled appetizers, steak, wine and enough carbohydrates to choke a barn filled with Clydesdales, we decided to up the ante and not go home. It was 9:45 p.m. and we were weary, but, determined.
We sucked it up and pressed on after an “everything ok?” text to our babysitter who was probably wondering why an iPad was in her lap with a note on the screen that said, “You’re babysitting our kids. Just go with it! FREE WI-FI!”. After the text back that said, “It’s fine, but, I’m probably going to have you both arrested.”, we decided to go bowling.
Because, nothing says last date before prison like bowling.
We hemmed and hawed over the 3 game package deal. 3 games? With wrists our age? Was that even possible? The look on the cashier’s face said, “I doubt anything is possible past 11:00 p.m. for you two.”, so, in an effort to disprove the sad truth plastered on her brow, we went for the three game package because, we’re hip and live by the seat of our enormous pants.
The last game was akin to crawling in the desert searching for a watery oasis. Our fingers were swollen. Our wrists hurt. I had resorted to Bud Light. Things were grim, but, we did it. We bowled the entire three games while music we did not recognize beat too loudly in our ears next to people drenched in too much cologne and youth. At 11:00 p.m., as we hobbled to our minivan, parked amongst the 2-door cars we once drove and loved, we looked at each other with pride and utter exhaustion. We did it!
We checked to make sure we had enough cash left in our wallet to make bail and headed home.