"I want to have a date tonight. Do you want to have a date tonight?" Maybe I should have passed her a note that said "check yes or no" but after fifteen years together, I often think of these cute and clever things hours after the fact.
Anne looked up from her magazine. "I like having dates with my husband," she said.
"Yeah, I was talking to him online earlier today, and he said that he likes having dates with you."
She closed her magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Where do you want to go?"
"Someplace we haven't gone before. That'll be an adventure."
Yeah, I've been suburbanized so long, going to a restaurant I haven't been to before now qualifies as an adventure. Twenty-two year-old Wil just put down his copy of Naked Lunch long enough to shake his head in either sadness, or disgust, depending on what angle you're looking at him from.
"Let's try that cafe on Raymond," she said.
So we did, and it was amazing, and we'll be going back frequently in the weeks and months to come.
(Parenthetical highlight: during our meal, a woman in her late 40s, wearing a fur leopard-print bucket hat and a shiny patent leather overcoat sat down next to us. It was such a stunning display of wrongness that I involuntarily stopped talking in mid word, and just stared at Anne. She looked back at me and very calmly said, "I have … comments." I laughed so hard, it must have looked like I was having a seizure.)
After dinner, we went to BevMo to get a present for one of our friends. While we were there, I picked up a Sublimely Self-Righteous Ale and a Rogue Chipotle Ale.
"I thought we were just here to get [REDACTED BECAUSE OUR FRIEND READS MY BLOG]," Anne said.
"It's so weird when you talk in all caps like that," I said. She looked back at me, patiently.
"Well, we are … but if I don't buy these beers, the terrorists have won."
"What is this, 2003?"
"NEVER FORGET, ANNE."
She gave me a look that said Tired of Your Shenanigans, Next Exit.
I got the message and quietly took my place in line.
(Incidentally, our time in BevMo may not have transpired in precisely that manner, but as I found the creation/retelling of this experience entertaining, I hope you will indulge me this bit of creative memory.)
When we got home, the night was still young, so I suggested we watch a movie together.
"What did you have in mind?" Anne asked.
I turned on our Roku and went to my Netflix queue. "How about … Thank God It's Friday?"
"The Disney movie?"
"… oh. That's Freaky Friday. Never mind."
We laughed together. "This is a disco movie that was made in 1978, and features Donna Summer and The Commodores, plus career performances from Debra Winger, Terri Nunn and Jeff Goldblum."
"You had me at 'disco movie,'" she said.
I was delighted to see that it was streaming in HD, thanks to my ISP temporarily forgetting to serve up about a quarter of the bandwidth I'm paying for, which is their custom.
The movie was just spectacular, and a ridiculous amount of fun. If you have 90 minutes and the means to view it, I highly recommend it.
About twenty minutes into the film, Anne paused it and looked at me. "You know what would make this movie even better?"
"Something I wouldn't want to recount on my blog?" I didn't actually say, but you must admit just made you giggle.
"Scotchy scotch scotch."
"It goes down … down into my belly!"
I went to our liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig. I poured two small glasses and gave her one of them.
"To cheesy 70s disco movies and dates together," I said.
"I just love my husband," she said.
"I love you the most," I said.
Twenty-two year-old me turned up Chet Baker on the CD player, and sighed wistfully. He didn't have any idea that in less than a year, he would meet the girl of his dreams.