Fancy Date

Saturday afternoon Cory and I landed a 24-hour stretch of kid freedom. As soon as the shorties left the building we were hit with a weird, rookie jolt of Now what?

As usual, Cory wanted to take to the streets. He suggested "shopping around", but I reminded him that this girl doesn't "shop around" unless she has some pocket change. And she doesn't.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

And we did what anyone in our position would do: We poured bowls of Raisin Nut Bran and ate them on the couch at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. Then we took naps. Separately.

High romance. Sky high romance, people.

(But there was time.)

So I snickered through two chapters of this book under the duvet, set my alarm, and dozed.

What seemed like three hours 15 minutes later, Cory barged into the room yelling, "Shannan! It's 5:30!" He looked positively stricken.

See, we had a big, fancy date on the docket. Dinner reservations at 6:30. At a restaurant 45 minutes away. And I hadn't even showered yet.

Long story short, I went to the symphony with towel-dried hair and fast-lane make-up.

I can't tell you how long I've wanted to go to the symphony. Cannot even do it. I loved every single minute, every last Gershwin note. I loved watching all the bows move in unison. I loved the bluesy clarinets and the Donald Duck trumpet mutes. I loved the chatty conductor. I. Loved. It. All.

The city's mayor stunned us into a collective reverie by flying through Rhapsody in Blue on the grand piano. It was moving, impressive, entirely captivating. It sounded to me more like Rhapsody in Fuchsia with Traces of Plum and Sun-bleached Sky, but that's just me.

This sort of night couldn't have come at a better time for us. Could there ever be a bad time? No. The answer is no.

We rolled home, had a drink and caramel fudge cheesecake, watched television in the dark, went to bed way too late, woke up even later and had Mexican food for brunch.

This is the life.

This is the life for me.


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