Date night in the middle ages

When staying home with the trusty refrigerator beats any fancy outing

‘Ew, go get a life!’ is my 15-year-old’s illuminating retort to anything from our commenting on her screentime to her screech time. Now, being a formula father and husband already leading an exemplary life, I ignored the kid. Till Amrika-returned friends advocated a ‘date night which saved their marriage.’ I scoffed at the idea that our marriage needed saving (the husband is the last to know) but the wife grasped at the idea with a zeal she usually reserves for the last gulab jamun.

Our extended family extended unsolicited opinions. ‘Date night? Why? You’re already married.’ My mother-in-law dismissed it. My aunt, whose career goal is to rearrange people’s plans, was more enthusiastic. ‘Why don’t you two stay home while we take your daughter out? Maybe that is why she is an only child?’

Undaunted by the Capulet-Montaguesque obstacles to true middle-aged love, we persisted. My wife spent an ill-afforded hour announcing that she had nothing to wear (she has three wardrobes full); then another hour covering every surface with post-its for every emergency foreseeable, laying food (for our daughter who lives on gum), cash (the only thing that finally disappeared), phone numbers of police, ambulance and pest control out on the table. My pleas to expedite our exit were met with withering looks (she does this more witheringly than I).