On Valentine’s Day weekend, I got my sister Kellene to commit to watch the boy named Roan, and sent a text to my friend Doug asking if we could please pretty please maybe get a table at his new restaurant, The Breslin?  I mean, it’s only a hot hot hot cool cool cool super-posh media magnet new place, and it was Valentine’s weekend, and I gave him all of 24 hours notice, but…how hard could it be?  He is a sweetheart of a man though, and told us to show up at 6:00 and we did just that.

A date.  Anson and I were going on a date.

We don’t go out very often, partly because I’m ever-conscious of the bank account, and partly because we rarely find a better fit than watching a movie with Roan eating pizza, popcorn, and following it up with ice-cream.  But when we do get out, it feels pretty weird, I have to admit.  I almost feel a pressing need to really really really extra-enjoy the night because buster if you’re going to indulge then, uh, you’d better really really really extra-enjoy it.  And as it happens, on this night my anxiety about really and truly enjoying myself got the better of me and totally buzz-killed the beginning of the night.

I know.  I’m dumb.  I know.

But a glass of wine later, after I chilled out a little bit, we hit our rhythm again.  Anson and I were in this stunning room, with stunning food, I was wearing lipstick, and we were having conversations about things other than Roan.  That is a recipe for success.  Until we hit the idea that Anson threw out – of moving to Africa and working in a village and building things, or teaching, or otherwise helping people.

Sounds nice.  Sounds worthwhile and fulfilling.  Sounds like a cool thing to experience.  If you’re in your twenties without children.  Which we are not.  On either count.  And so...

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