I wasn’t aware that we needed a marriage tune-up. But I guess we did. And we got one. And it was glorious.
The other night, we went to a concert. We saw My Celebrity Boyfriend Dave Grohl in all his broken-leg, sitting-on-a-throne glory. I knew every song and felt – dare I say it? – cool.
My Guy felt pretty happenin’, too. So, we did what cool and happenin’ folk do – we went to a bar.
Now, you might say it was a tactical error to go to a bar not near the concert venue, but near our house. And you might be right. Because our local watering hole was kind of deserted. We sat at a table for about 10 minutes before we realized that the waitress had gone home and the bar was our only option. Not that any of the 4 bored bartenders loitering about actually told us this. We figured it out on our own.
So, we bellied up to the bar and ordered ourselves some Miller Lites. Because cold Miller Lite is the nectar of the gods. And if you don’t believe me, there were about a dozen drunk people at the bar who would fight you for disagreeing.
Yes. We had stumbled into Drunktown.
There was the guy in the baseball jersey who had clearly been at the bar since the baseball game started some 6 hours earlier. He was holding court, but was in danger of falling off his bar stool.
Then there were the 3 guys who are probably good dudes but who had just enjoyed a little too much Miller Lite.
There were 2 old dudes who just looked sad, as you do at a bar at midnight if you’re alone and over the age of 60.
And then there were two women. They both had a distinct “I have a few ill-conceived tattoos” vibe that did not promise stellar emotional well being. And lemme tell you: when those girls approached the bar, it was like throwing raw meat into a den of lions. All the menfolk were all over them.
Meanwhile, My Guy and I sipped our beers and studied the scene, like anthropologists. It was fascinating.
Baseball guy zeroed in on the broken woman with the ratty hair. She seemed to be on a mission to get him to buy her as many drinks as she could slam in a short amount of time.
The other broken woman bounced between the old guys and the probably normal guys, touching their arms and flipping her hair around. I was never good at flirting, but even I saw this as pathetic.
My Guy put his arm around me, partly to whisper in my ear and maybe also to let the leaches know that we were an item.
“Hey, babe?” he said. “You’re a really attractive woman. But these girls make you look like a 13.”
We laughed. I looked at him, and I looked at the drunken, desperate mating melee in front of us. “Thank God we’re married,” I said as we clinked glasses. “My appreciation of you grows stronger by the minute.”
I looked into my beloved’s eyes, and he looked into mine. We both glanced over as the baseball guy finally fell off his stool and managed to bring the ratty-haired woman down with him. Drinks were spilled. The desperation was palpable. And My Guy and I just sat in our smug nest of security and love and ordered another round.