This past Saturday night, my husband and I went out for a drink; it was the first time in over a month. Initially, we were going to have dinner in San Augustine—the oldest most romantic city in Florida–but, as the day progressed, and the exhaustion of a typical Saturday piled up, we felt the weight of an elephant on our shoulders. So, we ended up going to the bar of a little pizza joint two blocks from home.
Prior to leave, we ate a nutritious family meal with the kids—Chinese takeout—then I prepared Bubbas for bed and gave “Sissy” a few instructions before we hit the road.
Our city, St Johns, is a family suburban area which lacks options for adult restaurants. Besides the Pumpkin Patch and a few family diners–that close by 9 p.m.–there is not much going on a Saturday night.
Regardless of the ambiance–families with three screaming kids in average–my husband and I found a moment of peace in the week without kids or employees demanding things from us. We had the chance to discuss our business and related projects for the final quarter of this year.
Also, we had the opportunity to talk about The Devil—our archenemy, whose identity I must keep secret, but starts with Ex and ends with Wife—and her newest attempt to ruin us, even though the ink on the divorce papers had dried 8 years ago.
The night was going great. Even the little bar surprised us with some live entertainment: one musician who played the guitar, sang, and added electronic background music with a foot pedal. I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time! He played a bunch of hits and my favorite, “Brown Eyed Girl,” to which my hubby and I smooched a sweet kiss.
After the third tequila, we both started yawning–pathetic I know–so we asked for the tab. We paid the bill, tipped the handy musician, and then, while walking out, I confirmed that a guy at the end of the bar was checking me out.
When my husband and I walked in the place, I caught the glance of a man at the bar, but nowadays I don’t care about such things. I lost practice! Plus, whom am I kidding; my eyes are going bad, too!
Besides, I feel loved and appreciated by my husband, and I know that the treasure I have at home is worth Fort Knox, therefore flirting with strangers makes no sense to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I like being admired. My vain mini-me likes attention, of course. That’s why I am getting a facial peel to shed some expression lines, and try to watch my diet to stay fit. However, flirting with random guys, and moreover in front of my husband, is something I don’t do. Not only do I love and respect him, but I also know that my husband would rather die than to be belittled by somebody else.
As I led the way out the bar, holding my husband’s hand, I could sense the killer stare that he gave to Mr. Flirt, marking his territory. In the parking lot, my husband started cursing the guy and all I could do was laugh nervously for two reasons: First, he looked so cute pissed off, and second, I imagined the scene in Rocky IV with the soundtrack in the background while my husband (Rocky) battered the mean Russian, Drago.
During the car ride home, we talked about what happened and came to the conclusion that simply, some people-men and women–don’t know the meaning of respect. I was sitting next to my husband, wearing my wedding rings, dressed nice–not like a street-walker–but most importantly, talking to him and not dancing on a pole! Do I have to wear a nun’s habit to make the statement, “I’m off the market”?
Nonetheless, that night reminded me how much my hubby still loves me and although I know it, it was fun to see it play out without being arrested for disturbing the peace. My Italian has a special gene for drama and passion, and for sure, there is no limit to his defending La Familia!
Thanks for reading and sharing.