It had been so long (more than more than a year) since Husb. and I had had a date night that when my mother (yes, my mother) organized a date night for us my first reaction was, Oh, shit.
My mother is always do-good-ing. I admire it when the object of quality of life improvement isn't me.
The word rusty came to my mind, closely followed by middle-aged, and doughy. And that was my wardrobe. I have a snake-print DVF knock-off wrap-dress from 1995.
I hadn't had my roots done in awhile, these days the word "toenails" is more likely not followed by the word "polish" but "fungus" and "Did you call the dermatologist?" which is gross but, we've been married more than a decade and the fruit of my loins is not a Georgia O'Keeffe painting.
The door to the bathroom stays open for there is no polite way to get the work of house-holding done as we yell to each other, "Did you defrost the meat, hon?" "Did you sign the permission slip, hon?" "You've been on the throne awhile...hey, asshole, are you watching House of Cards?"
Would we need a conversation menu?
Thankfully not. Like one might capture an angry badger in a flour sack I cinched the wrap-dress tight around my "waist," (success!) but with the boots I overshot.
In trying to zip them over my cankles, I struggled with the zipper, and grew frustrated because I knew Husb. was watching me hoping against hope for a Pretty Woman tableau. I gave the zipper a final yank, grunting like a longshoreman, and I lost my balance and knocked my head against armrest of the hotel armchair real slo-mo and sexy-like.