Meet The Lame-O's

Dinner last night was...okay. 

We got to the restaurant early, parked right by the front doors, and avoided a long walk in the blazing heat.  The girls were well-behaved around their grandparents, if a little loud at times, and we all enjoyed the time together.  But it would have been much better if our food had also been good.  I don't know what's coming over me, but I'm suddenly very picky with restaurant food.  I want it to be as good as something made in my own kitchen -- not that I'm a fantastic cook, but I do like what I make. 

As it was, Lauren refused her quesadilla and my own pasta was watery and nearly flavorless.  So we switched.  She made a mess of herself with long, dripping rows of pasta, and I ate a child's size portion.  Probably for the best.

Feeling guilty about the uneaten mass of food on my plate, we loaded it into a to-go box, and headed out the door.  We said goodbye to the generous grandparents and carted the girls and the leftover food to the car.  Buckling them into car seats was an ordeal of its own, because the car -- sitting in direct sun in the 104 degree early evening -- had turned into a formidable opponent.  Buckles burned, air vents blew hot air, and sunshine glared until we finally got on the road.

Pulling out of the parking lot, we passed a small group of teenagers, talking and laughing by their vehicle.  I was struck by how crazy they were to be standing in the full heat and sun, and still have smiles on their faces.  Justin was struck by something else: the lone guy in the group was waving his arms around, pointing at us and dancing around.  Being goofy. 

"What's that guy doing?" I asked. 

Justin squinted at the teenager while I navigated traffic.  "I have no idea," he snorted.  "He's just...being an idiot for those girls."

"What were you like in high school?" I asked.  We wonder about these things often -- how we would have viewed our lovable spouse if we'd seen them in all their adolescent glory.

Justin's expression turned suave and sophisticated.  "I was cool," he said.  "Mature.  Quiet and enigmatic.  Everything that guy's not.  But he'll grow up some day."

I laughed and played along, sure that Justin was exactly as he'd stated. 

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It seems like all of our time spent as a couple lately is busy. 

We're doing things with our daughters, doing things with our families, keeping up with our personal hobbies -- cycling for him, writing and reading for me -- and the time for conversation has become limited.  If we try to have a real conversation in the middle of dinner, we're bound to get waylaid by chattering, messy girls.  If one of us tries to discuss something while the other is heavily invested in some personal business, we become frustrated with the distraction. 

So it doesn't surprise me that the only time we do get to talk is late at night.  Between the hours of ten and midnight, we seem to untap our voices and unleash our thoughts.  And it's glorious.  It's like a slumber party with your best friend, where you just can't seem to stop talking long enough to actually fall asleep.  Even though we both have to get up the next morning, we'll talk in bed for so long that each others' hushed voices are what sends us into dreamland. 

It was like this last night after our dinner out.  We closed down the house from the movie and lights to the computers and baby monitors, thinking sleep was imminent.  But as soon as our heads hit the pillow, we were off.  So many things to talk about, so little time.

As a short-lived storm rolled across the sky, lightning flashing, we talked and laughed and planned.  Upcoming trips, long term ideas, discipline problems with the kids, dreams, hopes, worries -- all with our feet and legs intertwined, voices lazy with drowsiness.

We were so close to sleep that the pauses between each response had grown deep and quiet.  One last thought popped into my pre-dreaming mind: the leftovers from dinner.  If they'd been left in the hot car, in the hot garage, we'd be greeted with a stinky mess the next morning.

"Babe?" I whispered.  "Did you put the to-go box in the fridge?"

Silence.

He shifted, but the silence continued for so long that I wondered if he was already sleeping.  And then...

"I just had a revelation." His voice wasn't as sleepy as it had been a minute before.  "That guy at the restaurant wasn't just being an idiot."

I was completely confused by the shift.

He went on.  "He was yelling about the take-out container I left on top of the car."

Our laughter started low and disbelieving, and rose to snorts and honks so loud we worried about waking the kids. Our pillows became spotted with hilarious tears.  We had to turn the fan up to cool ourselves down.  Not only was the young guy at the restaurant not being an idiot (at least not at that precise moment), he probably thought the old-marrieds driving with food on their roof were a bunch of lame-o's. 

But I hope he someday gets lucky enough to realize how much fun it is being married to a co-conspirator in lameness.