Iam nothing if not a social person. I like gatherings, I like assemblages and doggonit, I love nothing more than to visit until the cows come home.
Pat, my darling husband of many years, would be just as happy if we never left the house. He has no desire to go out for dinner, talk to people or hang with his homies.
In fact, if you give the man the sports page and a good stiff cup of coffee, he’ll be good to go for the evening.
Despite his ability to be perfectly content in an overstuffed recliner, I need socialization. I need interaction, friendship and the opportunity to share stories from the home front.
Better yet, I like to dress up for such occasions. I like to purchase new clothes, buy matching trinkets and if that nifty little handbag that they have on sale down at the mall won’t pull an outfit together, then I don’t know what will.
Meanwhile Pat would rather hang out in a pair of jeans and mend the fence.
Much to my husband’s dismay, I also like to organize dinner dates with close friends. I just don’t think that there’s anything better than dressing up and hitting the town. “Didn’t we just have a meal out?” he asked me recently as I was trying to line things up for a Friday night.
“We did,” I answered as I checked our calendar, “but I don’t think that it counted as a ‘meal out.’”
“If we’re eating food from a restaurant and paying someone else to wash the pots and pans, it’s a meal out,” he responded condescendingly.
“If the meal comes wrapped in a napkin and served in a paper sack, then it’s not a meal out,” I responded as if I was quoting section 12-386 from my rules and regulations manual on the various stages of dining. “And that meal consisted of 14 $1 cheeseburgers from a fast food restaurant!” I exclaimed in disgust.
“What it lacked in class, it made up for in satisfaction.”
“We ate them in the car on our way to a football game!”
“There you go again,” he said as he shook his head. He then turned and walked away as he said to no one in particular, “I take her out and show her a good time and this is the thanks that I get.”
That poor, romantic, yet unappreciated man.
When I heard that a fundraiser for our school was rapidly approaching, I was giddy with anticipation. This annual event has always been a reason to dress up, have dinner with friends and let’s not forget to mention, do something on a Saturday night that doesn’t involve a first down. I stuck our RSVP in an envelope, made phone calls to friends, and then I started planning my outfit.
I didn’t tell Pat about the pending big night – not right away. If there’s anything I’ve learned from dealing with that man it’s that it’s better to wait as long as possible before dropping the social-engagement bomb on him. After all, there was no sense in listening to the grumbling for any longer than absolutely necessary. It’s like making a dentist appointment for your child – sometimes it’s better to keep them blindfolded until they’re seated in the chair.
But as the night of the big event approached, I became quite nervous about telling him that we were going to spend a Saturday night out of the box. I knew that he was bound to get suspicious once he saw me skipping lunch. I anticipated that he’d become curious when he saw me doing my nails and trying on clothes as I laid a coordinated outfit out for him on the bed.
“What do you have planned for the night?” I innocently asked as I eyed his five o’clock shadow.
“Nothing but football for me,” he said as he pulled on his favorite Huskers sweatshirt.
“Oh, because I thought that we’d get all gussied up and go out to dinner.”
“I don’t think so. You didn’t appreciate me the last time.”
“That’s because the last time was cheeseburgers in a bag and this time will be a meal served on actual plates.” Then I paused for effect before I added, “Sort of a formal function with a lot of people.”
“What formal function?”
“The one where I made reservations, pre-paid expensive dinners and lined up two tables for us to host.”
He turned to look at me and I could see that all of the color had drained from his face. His lips were turning blue and I swear he appeared to be short of breath.
Next time I’ll just blindfold him until he’s seated in the chair.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.