A night out

So I'm going out on a date night with my husband for the first time in a long time. OK, so it's really a double date night since our friends are going too but they won't notice if we hold hands and make gaga eyes at each other all night long. ::snort:: Yes, if you really know me, that is so not how date night is going to go. If it gives you any indication how the night will go, here's the lead up to the big evening.

D. is already at the bar of our choice as he had a late meeting there. He calls to say he'll just wait for the other 3 of us to arrive as the bartender is his new best friend and is keeping the beer pouring.

After his phone call, I realize that we are getting perilously close to the time said friends and I have settled upon for departure so I decide to mosey into the shower. I have a grand total of about 10 minutes to get ready.

I am not a makeup kind of girl (I leave that to the tween child) so that cuts down on the time needed to primp. I am also happy as a little clam to walk out the door with wet hair (it's the former swimmer in me, I think). Although a friend once commented that I looked like I was lactating with all the drips from my hair wetting the front of my shirt so perhaps trying to dry it a tiny bit would be a good idea.

I know exactly what I'm going to wear. Keeping in mind that my everyday clothing looks like it could still have Garanimal tags on it, this is a serious decision so it's good that it's already made. Cami on. Blouse on. Jeans not on. Holy moley I gained weight this summer!

I may have to spend the remainder of my 10 minutes struggling into my jeans. Oh good. Wriggling and contorting and turning blue while holding my breath has worked and the jeans are on. Of course, this amount of effort means that the jeans may not be unbuttoned at any time this evening, even for the bathroom, or I'll have to go home naked. Because I am not sure I have enough strength left in my hands to button the darned things up again this decade. Oh, and I already know that the imprint of the back of the button is going to be permanently embossed into the tum fat like a second belly button by the time I peel myself out of these. Pretty.

So now I'm ready to go and the friends are not. I can't sit down (might pop the button) and can barely breathe. But I'm sure dinner is going to be a blast (watching others eat is always fun). And with luck, D. will remember where the heck he parked the car tomorrow morning (he's already asked if it's legal to leave it there overnight). All this excitement and we're likely to be safely tucked back in our beds by 10pm.

Our lives may have changed substantially since college but apparently our date nights are still the same aside from the massive time shift.