Date Night

I impulsively bought a Groupon last weekend for a "chocolate making course" for two at an Italian heritage center in Scotch Plains. I thought it would be a sexy and romantic couples thing for me and Dan. You know, licking chocolate off each other's faces etc. and maybe having impulsive, sensual encounters on a private kitchen counter in a restaurant kitchen. Like that scene in Ghost with the clay only with fudge.

We ended up in an Episcopal church hall with about 100 other people, carefully chopping up marshmallows and sticking red sugar on each bit, then squishing it into frosting for a rose-petal themed cupcake. I was immediately impressed with Dan's skill with candy making, and felt the spark of love ignite when I licked each marshmallow so the candy would stick to it.

"I am going to do such naughty things to you later," I declared.

"Oooh, I can't wait!" said Dan.

"I was talking to the cupcake," I replied. (insert sitcom laughter here).

The room was filled with quite a few other random couples of various ages, undoubtedly lured to this strange night out by the Groupon. I tried not be to overly threatened by the very sexy, thin young Italian woman, Francesca, who circulated around, offering frosting-piping advice with a caramel accent.

No worries on that front; my husband was focused on the candy workshop with the same precision and attention to direction that he probably has doing client service support at work. I also disturbed him by eating sprinkles off the table.

Still, it was a good time. I was thinking about The Bachelor and how the whole premise of the show is adrenaline and novelty; the contestants participate in ropes courses, bungee jumping, and African safaris together...no wonder they fancy themselves in love after one day. Then they come back to reality, back to work, back to the United States, marooned together in normalcy. No wonder they never stay together. I could find myself loving even the most ordinary moron if we'd spent two days tribal dancing in the Brazilian rain forest.

So it's better to work backwards. Shipwrecked together in real life where sometimes the most interesting thing we have going on is Battlestar Galactica coming in the Netflix queue, we have to inflate the ole life raft and sail away.

I think I'm too hard on myself, too hard on life and what it should be. It's probably enough to sneak away every now and then and see yourself and your mate in a new context. It's not an African safari; it doesn't even make a great blog posting, really. It's just life. A little messy and a little sweet and little random. Sometimes I get rebellious and try to lick the table. And there's always my husband, shaking his head and handing me the most impressively imperfect truffle he rolled himself in cocoa powder.