spouse. I’ve encouraged married folk to commit to a regular date night, shake things up with novel activities, and take that extra time to prepare for and flirt with their spouses. I’ve profiled happily married couples and even created a primer on how to date like the Obamas. I’m such a fraud.
My own dating life is not so healthy. My dates lack the romantic spark I advocate. On a recent Saturday night, for example, my husband and I experienced the rare thrill of being childless for a few hours. I sat on his lap and told him there was something I wanted to do. Before he even had time to ponder the possibilities, I laid it on him: what I really, really wanted—was Sam’s Club.
I wasn’t lured by the flattering fluorescent lighting or the possibility of making out in a pleather recliner in the furniture aisle. No, I needed to scope out the food options for the fortieth birthday party I was throwing myself. (In more romantic couples, the person not actually having the big milestone birthday might be the one to plan the party, but this is about us.)
Let the dating begin!
First we stopped at the optical counter, where I talked John into some stylish new frames. A few minutes later we shared samples of Goldfish crackers and compared the price of meat and cheese trays. He told me he’d take care of everything for the party, which is not how it will work, but it sounded nice, and saying pretty things is half of romance.
A particularly zesty looking tray of enchiladas wouldn’t let us go. We picked them up to pop into the microwave at home. Our hot date would now include a romantic meal. The free appetizer course was served in store: pizza, granola bars, and sausage.
We saw and were seen. Among the thirty-pound bags of avocados and lifetime supplies of Pop Tarts, we found people we knew—a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker. Turned out Sam’s was the place to be that Saturday night.
We even held hands.
There were no cute jeans, no sexy shoes. I didn’t blow out my hair or retouch my makeup. But it was nice. This errand I could have done on my own was as good a date as any. Doing it together reminded me of how life used to be before the business end of our family got so big it required dividing up all the little tasks that used to bring us together.
We went home and shared those enchiladas in the living room like old times. John tried to sit next to me on the love seat, but it wasn’t comfortable and we’ve got nothing to prove. He headed over to the recliner, where I was welcome to join him for a make out session—or not. And he let me pick the movie.
Maybe I’m not such a fraud after all.
Retiring Romance
R
ECENTLY MY HUSBAND AND I SAT DOWN WITH A RETIRE - MENT specialist to discuss our financial future. I am the consummate multi-tasker, so I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident.
Not that it wasn’t romantic. Especially digging through our files to find copies of what we fondly refer to as “coffee money,” aka our combined 401k accounts, Roth IRAs, and statements from some option we bought during one or another bubble.
Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.
Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”
Because it was a
My own dating life is not so healthy. My dates lack the romantic spark I advocate. On a recent Saturday night, for example, my husband and I experienced the rare thrill of being childless for a few hours. I sat on his lap and told him there was something I wanted to do. Before he even had time to ponder the possibilities, I laid it on him: what I really, really wanted—was Sam’s Club.
I wasn’t lured by the flattering fluorescent lighting or the possibility of making out in a pleather recliner in the furniture aisle. No, I needed to scope out the food options for the fortieth birthday party I was throwing myself. (In more romantic couples, the person not actually having the big milestone birthday might be the one to plan the party, but this is about us.)
Let the dating begin!
First we stopped at the optical counter, where I talked John into some stylish new frames. A few minutes later we shared samples of Goldfish crackers and compared the price of meat and cheese trays. He told me he’d take care of everything for the party, which is not how it will work, but it sounded nice, and saying pretty things is half of romance.
A particularly zesty looking tray of enchiladas wouldn’t let us go. We picked them up to pop into the microwave at home. Our hot date would now include a romantic meal. The free appetizer course was served in store: pizza, granola bars, and sausage.
We saw and were seen. Among the thirty-pound bags of avocados and lifetime supplies of Pop Tarts, we found people we knew—a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker. Turned out Sam’s was the place to be that Saturday night.
We even held hands.
There were no cute jeans, no sexy shoes. I didn’t blow out my hair or retouch my makeup. But it was nice. This errand I could have done on my own was as good a date as any. Doing it together reminded me of how life used to be before the business end of our family got so big it required dividing up all the little tasks that used to bring us together.
We went home and shared those enchiladas in the living room like old times. John tried to sit next to me on the love seat, but it wasn’t comfortable and we’ve got nothing to prove. He headed over to the recliner, where I was welcome to join him for a make out session—or not. And he let me pick the movie.
Maybe I’m not such a fraud after all.
Retiring Romance
R
ECENTLY MY HUSBAND AND I SAT DOWN WITH A RETIRE - MENT specialist to discuss our financial future. I am the consummate multi-tasker, so I may have erroneously referred to this as a lunch “date.” Or maybe it was no accident.
Not that it wasn’t romantic. Especially digging through our files to find copies of what we fondly refer to as “coffee money,” aka our combined 401k accounts, Roth IRAs, and statements from some option we bought during one or another bubble.
Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.
Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”
Because it was a
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