Oh, the distances some of us will travel to plan a romantic rendezvous. In my case I traveled 19 miles for some alone time with my dear mate.
Friends invited us this past Saturday night to join them at a swanky hotel in Miami Beach for dinner and drinks. Since our calendar and our wallets both approved of the time and expenditure, we gladly obliged.
We rushed out of work, bid our kids a good night and sped off with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to our hotel on the beach. We hurriedly dressed with nary a look at each other and graciously reconnected once the elevator doors opened to the lobby.
We held hands as we walked toward our friends. I knew it would be a good night. It had been quite some time since our last foray in South Beach and so, I was struck by the crowd and the atmosphere. We settled into modular couches which were too low to the ground so that once you actually sat, you felt you were sitting on the floor. Fifteen years ago I would have marveled at the design; that night, I cursed it.
I bravely ordered a cosmopolitan, fully expecting my friend to join me in the peccadillo. She did not. What ensued was an entertaining downward spiral my husband fully endorsed. We all shared personal anecdotes and admitted things inappropriate for this venue but suffice to say, it was a great and funny night.
We watched from a distance the velvet rope at the night club swell with party goers vying for a nod from the burly, black clad bouncers. Few were admitted in. We didn’t even try. Those days are over and by 12:30am, my husband and I called it a night, opened the doors to our room, and swiftly fell asleep.
Strangely enough I awoke to find the many pillows on our bed lined between us in a straight formation, from the headboard to the foot of the bed. At some point during the night, a well-defined line of separation was expertly drawn down the middle of our bed. We slept soundly and deeply, despite the artificial partition.
I am uncertain who is responsible for the 38th parallel in our bed. I suspect he did it. We can’t blame the kids. They weren’t there.
I know our marriage bed is a demilitarized zone, so this latest incursion is humorous albeit puzzling. It is not a precursor of things to come.
Though the Veuve Clicquot remained unopened in the wine bucket, I am heartened by the fact that champagne does not spoil when exposed to the elements. It is quirky and temperamental but triumphantly improves with time. Like marriage.
March 22, 2010
*Tree Bed by Shawn Lovell Metalworks