Tuesday, April 9, 2013
What is it about Saturday night?
I’m totally content to sit home every night of the week except Saturday. In fact, Widdle and I have a longstanding agreement that keeps us apart on Friday nights—I’m at the big house, he’s at the river and we have a swell time.
He joins friends for a few libations, toddles home, eats microwave popcorn and goes to bed. Sometimes he sleeps for 10 hours straight. (Since he normally gets five hours, what with a senile dog and snoring wife, I can’t grudge him Friday nights.)
I love my solo time, too, although it wouldn’t raise anyone’s blood pressure. I may have a flossing marathon, moisturize my elbows, read home improvement blogs, dress up the dog, whatever. I’m in my frayed blue UNC t-shirt, obsessing over chalk paint and happy as a clam at high tide.
Then comes Saturday, and I feel like we should go and do, see and be seen. I don’t know why it feels different than Tuesday night, but it does. (It’s probably important to note that there are no children/grandchildren to occupy my time. Although I do have an awesome stepson, he was 24 and married when we met, and thus has required very little step-mothering.)
It’s odd--when I was single, my perfect Saturday night consisted of me, a video (back when Blockbuster was a store, not a kiosk), and Chinese takeout. I reveled in being alone and autonomous.
Now that I’m not single, I have this strange need to DO SOMETHING, even if it’s just going to play Putt-Putt (which I’m terrible at and haven’t actually done in 15 years.)
I like to socialize, but I’m—how can I put this—socially awkward. If not around family or close friends, I tend to get tongue-tied. I’m not good at small talk and I’m not smart enough to fake it. Once we establish that you, I and our respective loved ones are doing fine, I don’t know where to take it from there.
Back to Saturday nights and what to do, what to do. I don’t like to eat out more than once a week, usually on Sundays, so that’s out. Popping out for a drink is tempting, but we’re 15 miles from the nearest glass of wine, and both of us are too paranoid to have even one drink and get behind the wheel. So that’s out.
I’d love to head into Charleston more often, but going to a concert, movie or play requires a round-trip of 40 to 75 miles. Given that my husband routinely drives 500 miles a week for work (and is too terrified to let his wife take the wheel), I hate asking him to drive even more on the weekends.
If I had my way Widdle and I would play poker every weekend (he taught me when we were dating), but he doesn’t play cards much anymore.
We could, and frequently do, spend the night at the river among neighbors, but too often we oversleep and miss church the next day.
So what’s left? It may be time to face the truth: We’re officially “homebodies.” If you’d told me when I was 35 that I’d be eating a bowl of microwaved Publix moose tracks frozen yogurt while watching the RFD Channel on Saturday night, I’d have gagged/laughed.
But, like chalk paint and mittens on a dog, it’s growing on me.
Julie R. Smith, who also likes pomegranate frozen yogurt, can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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