Weekends always used to be lazy days filled with relaxation and dread about the upcoming work or school week. Now everything is topsy-turvy and weekends have taken on a new connotation. With my husband, let’s call him The Professor, gone most workdays at a University over an hour away, (thus making his commute through the nothingness that is this rural place a bit like hell,) weekdays are my lazy time, my relaxation, making weekends a time to be together, reconnect, and have as much fun as we can before another week starts. They’re like stolen moments. Living in the middle of nowhere adds its limits to these moments but also can make weekends seem like a post-apocalyptic world where we are the only two left. But a cuddly, make-your-friends-nauseous-because-you’re-so-adorable-type post-apocalyptic world.
Friday night saw our tiny cottage turned into the hottest dance club this side of Atlanta (which, sadly, is probably true). Pandora and cheep beer proved a recipe for success. Our dog was not amused.
Saturday was The Professor’s day. His friends wanted to meet up about an hour from the cottage, providing me with an excuse to get dressed and put on make-up. I wore the most adorable ‘50s inspired blue sweater, zipped up my leather boots and was excited to be out and be social. But of course, being organized by men, the night did not end up exactly as I’d hoped. After his friends were two hours late (sorry waitress whose table we completely monopolized while only ordering drinks and salivating at the fantastic menu), we had to retreat to the outdoor porch of the bar because they brought their tiny, yappy dog. Also, it was freaking cold. The Professor’s friends, although close to me in actual age, all are much younger in spirit and most of them have taken longer to graduate college, only now entering the post-go-to-class-once-a-week-at-11:00 phase in their lives. So we listened to them talk about their far-fetched plans to live in an RV and travel the country, selling DVDs over the internet (And then something about pirate cruises on a pirate ship, their 5-year plan.) Then we followed them to the most disturbing hole of an apartment to meet another friend, who had us watch a YouTube video that can only be defined as porn-light while changing his three month old baby on a dirty, dirty, dirty floor while his many cats circled in what I can only believe was a secret plan to one day crush the infant.
After much marital eye-communicating, we developed an exit strategy, called the night a bust, got Taco Bell and retreated to the cottage. Why is it that men always plan a night through vague text messages?