I LOVE Friday night because Jason and I usually go out and do something fun like dinner and a movie, a play or concert, go to a sporting event of some sort, go out for ice cream or some other treat, or go for a walk or bike ride somewhere.
It’s all good because we’re out and away and together!
It makes me feel young.
We actually had some killer Friday night plans fall into our laps earlier in the week. Jason’s brother called and invited us to go to St. George to see Aladdin at Tuachan. They had extra tickets because some friends bailed, so they figured it was better to slum with relatives than waste the tickets, so they called us.
I told him we were in.
I was just about to call my former neighbor who just moved to St. George and tell her we’d take her up on her offer to “stay with them anytime,” when Jason remembered he had something that night—a scout overnighter with Scott.
I told him to get out of it.
He said he was in charge of it and it would look bad to ditch for something optional and recreational.
I told him to lie.
He said it was a church thing so he probably shouldn’t lie.
Since the boys would be gone I thought a girls night out with my daughters would be fun. I started making plans—sushi and a movie, or maybe put on tutus and spray paint our hair and go to the high school football game.
Then Ivy came home from school with an ear infection and Madi came home with a boy.
Girls night out was a bust.
I could go do something by myself, but a 40-year-old woman wearing a tutu in the stands without back-up would look stupid. Plus, I didn’t want to leave Ivy since she wasn’t feeling well.
My precious Friday night was slipping away.
Then a friend called and invited me to come over. She was a loner too for the night since her husband had to be a bouncer at an over-31 singles dance and her teenagers were off with friends. She had her 10-year-old daughter at home for the night and I had Ivy to monitor, so we decided to watch a chick flick and quilt at her house. She lived close enough that I could check in on Ivy.
At least I was going out for Friday night, kinda.
She had her husband pick up a Red Box flick for us on the way home from work. He said pickins were slim, but he found a Morgan Freeman flick that looked interesting.
It wasn’t interesting. It was barely tolerable. Morgan would have been better off accepting a Depend undergarment advertising contract if he was that low on cash.
As the movie with no coherent plot dragged on and on into the night, I started to evaluate our stats:
– My friend and I were hunched over sewing machines in her basement while eating 100 calorie Weight Watchers snack cakes and watching Morgan Freeman trying to be deep.
– My friend’s husband was at a church watching desperate middle-aged singles gyrate around the gym under a disco ball trying to find their one true soul mate, again.
– My husband was laying on the ground up in the mountains freezing his buns off and dodging cowpies in a tent next to a slew of rowdy 12-year-old boys who wouldn’t go to sleep.
Is this what Friday nights have come to?
I think I’ll call Sunshine Terrace Nursing Home and see what they’ve got on the roster for this Friday night. It’s got to be a step up.