Date Night

On nights when the waxing moon rises and spreads its illuminating lunacy across the cityscape, strange and homely creatures emerge from their family-size sedans and lurk amongst unsuspecting sociable individuals.  These mild-mannered suburbanites are easily differentiated from the general populace by their common uniform of costume jewelry, polo shirts and sensible shoes (sometimes with socks, sometimes without, depending upon how carefully maintained their remaining sense of style may be).  You will know them by the expression of wonder on their faces as they encounter other adults who speak in full sentences instead of toddler-ese jabberwocky and who carry a discreet name-brand purse instead of a diaper bag.

You may be seated in the booth next to them at your local bar and grill franchise, where one of them will make a failing attempt at placing a drink order for apple juice on the rocks.  Or you may spot them on the ballroom dance floor of a local hotel, swaying to the Friday night three-piece house band in that strange rhythm which only married couples seem to know and not be embarrassed of in the least.      

Their presence, though thoroughly entertaining to a sophisticated crowd, is not long beheld; alas, the chime of their internal timepieces will turn them into a pumpkin by eleven o’clock, thus culling the crowd in favor of the hipper of the herd.  They contentedly drift home at a leisurely 45 miles per hour, satisfied that they have nourished their relationship with the stuff of romance – the understated glow of her mauve Mary Kay lipstick, his liberal application of Aqua Di Gio, a low-carb appetizer for two, and the soft rock standards that drift from their car stereo and into the hush of the early evening.       

These are the parents.

This is their date night.