Many years ago, in the days when going out required a babysitter or cooperative relative, Kurt and I were riding somewhere in the truck, and he commented on how busy the upcoming weekend was. At the end of the list of events, he said "and then on Tuesday, we have to go out for our anniversary.""We don't have to," I said. And while marriage milestones offered a break from young family life and all its responsibilities, we didn't. A nice dinner out is a treat, not an obligation.
We went to Florida to see my parents. We arrived home on a Thursday. I worked that night. The next night, my older daughter and her boyfriend came here for their spring break from Americorps. We spent time with them, they spent time with each other (they aren't stationed in the same locations), we took a day trip to Mammoth Cave, taught Kendra to make Creme Brulee, the two of them made us gnocchi, went for a day hike, watched a movie or two and enjoyed each other's company. They left Thursday afternoon.
I'm rarely home for dinner. I work at night. The two nights we have together are often times to go out and do things. And twice a month, my night off is my writers group night. This week is one of those, and it coincides with our anniversary of 26 years, May 3.
Originally, Kurt wanted to rent a cabin for two nights and do some hiking and sightseeing. But we just got back, then had company. It would be nicer to do it when we've been home and want to go somewhere.
So we were going to go out for dinner on Sunday night, but instead, we went to REI and bought ourselves new boots. I know that isn't dinner, isn't romantic and doesn't start with a whiskey sour. But I felt like eating home, eating light. Kurt cooked a stir fry, which included broccoli from the garden, and we watched a movie.
My old boots were worn slam out. And we still may go out to lunch tomorrow. No obligation.
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