Young and Hip is Overrated

The P-Dawg and I went out on Saturday night, sans enfants.

Four sips into my adult beverage, I was twirling a lock of hair around my index finger, talk, talk, talkin' 'bout how much I luuurve me a Moe-Hee-Toe, and poking gentle fun of the baby boomeresque ladies dining one table over. (Something about "lightweights with chardonnay" if memory, which is fuzzy, serves correctly.)

After dinner, I browsed around at Anthropologie while the P-Dawg patiently read Bartleby's Quote Book on a purple velvet couch.

(Reading material is available at this store for the discerning shopper's reluctant male companion. Merely stepping foot inside the whimsical and over-priced estrogen alley that is Anthropologie gives P-Dawg the heebie-jeebies. He simply does not understand the allure. "Why does everything in here look old and beat up?")

We ate dessert at Cold Stone Creamery, lingered at Barnes and Noble, and pulled into our driveway at 9:59 PM.

As soon as the sitter fled, I changed into pajamas and curled up on the couch with a cup of tea and my new reading materials.

"P-Dawg, I thoroughly enjoyed our date tonight, but next time, let's go for the early bird special. We'll save a buck AND be home five minutes after the kids are asleep."

"Deal."

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I think I've waited my whole life to be here, squarely in my thirties.

Back in the day, while out clubbing with friends, I often secretly wished to be in my dorm room, smoking Camels and reading Raymond Carver instead. At the time, I didn't have the self-assurance to opt out of these evenings and I didn't want to risk missing out on seeing and being seen.

I think I've always preferred board games and conversation with a small group of close friends to partying the night away (although I've been known to do both.)

I don't miss the awkward early stages of romantic relationships, getting the requisite talk of likes and dislikes, childhoods, and future aspirations out of the way.

I still care about my appearance, but I'm no longer loathe to be seen without makeup. Ironic, since now I have "laugh lines."

There are no more smokey treats around here, but the P-Dawg and I do try to keep things interesting with an occasional club concert or late night of revelry.

But coming home early to a warmly lit house, children sleeping safely in their beds, a cup of tea, a book, a soul mate, and an elastic waistband is pure, guilt-free bliss.

I do believe I'll be keeping happy company with the chardonnay drinking biddies in a few years' time.