Date Night

Aware of the continued need to give my husband some quality time, we took time for a date night yesterday evening.  Musicians of my husband's acquaintance, The Mike Branch Band were playing at a small bar outside of Kelso.  This is the quintessential biker bar.  Unevenly worn, wooden floors, an outdoor eating area with crude fire pit and what smelled like great food give this place an unforgettable ambiance.   This little bar hangs on the side of a country road, suspended above a ditch filled with murky water.  It has a perfect sense of what it is and who it serves. It's customers seem to be having a great time.


My husband and I shared few words on the drive up.  Lost in my own thoughts, I gave him the gift of an easy silence.  When we arrived, the building was packed .  We parked at a bit of a distance, the van hugging the side of the road.  I had to get out on the driver's side.  I accidentally honked the horn with my derriere.  I'd slipped on a summer dress that I had paid a whole quarter for at a garage sale.  I soon saw that I was grossly overdressed.   No one seemed to notice or even care.  I liked this odd collection of middle-aged folks seeking to relive their youth, if only for a few hours on a Saturday evening.  They were amusing and yet, endearing.  They hadn't forgotten how to relax and have fun.  Had I?

The band was good but so loud.  I pondered on why middle aged men find it necessary to distort the quality of their music by cranking up the amp.  Then again, my viewing it as too loud maybe more of a reflection of my age then theirs.   A kind couple at the next table, offered some us bright orange ear plugs.  They were my kind of people.  Wearing the ear plugs, I could understand the words and hear the guitar solos.  My ears rang less.  The threat of a headache waned.

A few couples got up to dance.  Women stretched various synthetic fabrics in interesting ways.  Men seemed to do more kicking than dancing.  Or maybe, it was some form of kung fu.    Occasionally, a man whose eyes had almost completely retreated to the back of his head, staggered on to the dance floor, beer in one hand and a tall black stool with silver legs, in the other.  I feared for the stool and then myself, as he staggered  near.  He would abruptly toddle away only to return to dance with his partner, the stool.    A flash of irritation that they were still serving him flashed across my head.  It was out of my hands.  I let my anger go and said a quiet prayer that no one would let him drive and then forgot about him until today.  Hey, Stool Dancer, I hope you're lost in fitful slumber and will awake with one heck of a headache.  Consequences have much to teach us. 

At about 9 p.m. someone lit the outdoor fire pit.  The smoke from the wood fire filled the room. The smell of wood smoke always takes me back to childhood.  For a moment, I stand before the furnace.  I am feeding the fire with a log from the wood pile, the pile we carefully built every early autumn.  The floor, vibrating with sound, breaks my revelry.  I take in the dance floor, stools jerking through air, fabric stretched in unattractive ways, men kicking spasmodically.  I realize that I really am having fun.  I am observing.  I am learning.  I am a nerd and I'm happy to be one.  No stool dancing for me unless carefully controlled and done among friends for a laugh.  I may have fluked party but I'm doing what I enjoy most, watching and enjoying it all.

I hope that my husband is enjoying himself.  With the volume and the ear plugs, we communicate with gestures and an occasional shouted word.  I wonder if he is as content as I or if he needs to join some of the action to really have fun.  When he asks me if I'm ready to leave,  I don't answer with the "yes" I feel.  I say,  "Are you?"  He hesitates and surveys the room.  I ask,  "Do you want to stay?"  I quickly add,  "I don't want to be a wet blanket."  I can be and this evening is for him more than it is for me.  After a small hesitation, he says,  "No, I'm ready."  I believe him.  We head back to our sleeping children.  Our son awakes when I check on him.    He asks,  "Did you have a good time?"  I say, "Yes, we did."  We really did.