On Saturday night, the CTU and I took husband out to dinner for his birthday. By “CTU” I mean my Control Top Underwear. It seems only fair that I refer to the CTU when I refer to myself as it has become an integral and ever-present part of my life. And calling it the CTU makes me feel like feel like I am Jack Bauer and I have 24 hours to save the world from the threat of terrorists (rather than (a) 24 years of daily sit ups, which is how long it will take me to emancipate myself from the CTU; or (b) 24 months of stringent saving and stealing from the household budget which is how long it will take me to afford the plastic surgery which would emancipate me from the CTU faster than sit ups.)
On Saturday night, husband and I had a wonderful time. I must admit I approach spending quality time alone with my husband with a little trepidation. There is always a tiny fear in the back of my mind that once we have been stripped of the dual distractions of constantly:
- running after wayward children who turn into kelpies as soon as they see a moving car; or
- being interrupted by said wayward children who absolutely must talk to me/wee/fight with each other/touch each other/vomit when I am trying to talk to my husband; and
once husband and I have talked about our wayward children including:
- any administrative issues related to them;
- any charming anecdotes illustrating how impossibly adorable they are; and
- any worrying issues that need parental consensus and action; that
we might actually have forgotten how to talk about anything else, and we will realise that we have become one of those couples who terrify me: the couple that sits at a table in a restaurant, silently. Not a comfortable or exhausted silence. A bored and empty one.
Of course, every time I do get some quality time with my husband, I am reminded of three things:
(a) I am completely neurotic and need to find new things to worry about or I should just stop making up things to worry about;
(b) after ten years of marriage, my husband still has it (yes husband, if you’re reading this, you’ve still got it); and
(c) it turns out that I’ve still got it too. Either that, or he was so drunk he found everything I said charming and hilarious.
And so on Saturday night, we talked and laughed for ages. I was reminded that I don’t want to wait until Newborn moves out, to spend more quality time with husband. As Newborn is a Sri Lankan male, he will probably stay with us until he gets married and even then he may never move out (or stop bringing his laundry over).
In the end, we did have to leave the restaurant in a hurry. We made what Jack Bauer would call a tactical retreat. Not because we had run out of things to say, or because we had nothing to say in the first place. We left because after several hours of sitting down (and eight exquisite courses of food), the CTU was becoming very uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that I knew I had precisely 24 minutes to get back home and peel them off my body, thereby restoring the blood flow to the lower half of my body and saving my feet from the imminent threat of amputation. I bet Jack Bauer and his CTU never have nights (or dates) like that.