My husband and I have long struggled with planning date nights. We are very much opposites, and well past the polite era of marriage where I will pretend to share in his interests (fly fishing, films where Liam Neeson grips the throat of a drug lord) nor will he pretend to delight in mine (rock concerts, films where Ryan Gosling caresses the throat of Emily Blunt). While we live in New York City—land of “things to do”—suggesting outings can often feel, well, exhausting. A cruise upon the Hudson? A speakeasy? Sure, axe throwing might sound fun, unless it falls within the window of my monthly cycle when the way my husband blinks feels like a personal affront. Then axe throwing could prove fatal.
We recently had our 15th wedding anniversary and—as we do every year—we struggled with how to celebrate. Our typical date usually involves eating overpriced tapas, complaining we’re still hungry, then struggling to converse with our babysitter without revealing we might have consumed more than the American Medical Association’s recommended number of mojitos.
This year, in a burst of inspiration, we decided to go hear chamber music, which makes us sound far more refined than we are. (The fact that we inhaled a thawed bag of Bertolli rigatoni mere minutes before leaving stands as testament to this fact.) We arrived at Carnegie Hall, settled in for a romantic night of Bach, then listened to the elderly man beside us snore like a chainsaw. Meanwhile, the elderly woman in front of us held her head mournfully in her hands, as if praying for death to take her. It was, one might say, an affair not to remember.
We did try rock climbing not too long ago, which was essentially a reminder that I have the core strength of a bean bag chair. And I recently almost suggested an escape room, but suspected my husband would have attempted to escape our marriage had I made him spend the evening pretending to be trapped in a haunted library. There’s pottery class…painting while drinking pinot…pickleball…those many sexless P activities that all quietly signal: “This is someone I just watched floss their teeth while listening to a podcast on bird flu.”
But while it might feel hard to seek out new experiences with one’s spouse, I do believe it’s worth the effort. I know a day will come in the not so distant future when we will be too old to sign liability waivers, and will also simply hold our heads in our hands. In the meantime, I’m happy to fail with him on a Friday. Which is why I’ve signed us both up for trapeze.
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