The night PD and I went on our first date, I wore a royal blue sweater which I found out later was his favorite color on me. The sweater is long since gone but I always wear something that shade of blue for our date. And I did that last night. Amazingly, due to having left work an hour early (I know!) I was showered and primped and shiny and scented and waiting when PD announced that it was time to go. The weird part about dating your husband is that you miss all that fun stuff like one-last-look-in-the-mirror-before-answering-the-door and the anticipatory nerves. You pretty much know what to expect at this point.
What you don’t expect is arriving 5 minutes before your reservation to find a sign on the door of the restaurant reporting that the establishment is closed to to the cleaning of smoke damage by the restoration company whose truck and van were suspiciously the only other vehicles in the parking lot. This, after a romantic drive, sharing memories of that first evening spent together and laughing about the first time one of us (guess who) professed our love for the other. With some of our favorite songs playing in the background.
This news brought about a mix of emotions. First PD was po’d that they had our reservation and should have called and cancelled. Then I was worried for the new owner’s bad luck. Then we were both overcome with hunger and realizing that to go back home and start cooking would move dinner to a pretty late time slot. So we decided to go somewhere else and had some over-priced mediocre crab-stuffed flounder and shared a pecan ball (vanilla ice cream ball covered in pecans drizzled with chocolate syrup and covered in whipped cream.) We were properly stuffed but not quite satisfied when we left. The ambience and sentimental quality were definitely lacking.
So we came home and did what we always do after our first date anniversary dinner. We slow danced to Unchained Melody. And we laughed through most of it because we couldn’t find a spot in the living room where the floor boards didn’t creak. A certain poeticism in that, you could say. If indeed poeticism is a word.