Every Outing is a Date

Every Outing is a Date

A Wry Vignette About Anne and Me

In high school, I was the ugly duckling. I was the only kid who managed to look both invisible and conspicuous at the same time, sporting a truly unfortunate haircut and acne that seemed to have a personal vendetta against me. Dates, for me, were the stuff of Hollywood movies, football player fantasies, and wishful thinking. The most romantic thing that ever happened in my teenage years was when a classmate accidentally brushed my hand reaching for a protractor in geometry class.

Now, decades later, the universe has seen fit to make up for lost time. Every outing with Anne—who is, in her own words, “terminal, but still terminally charming”—is officially declared a date. Our dates are spectacular: a slow-motion race down the drugstore aisle for the last bottle of Vitamin D or a romantic trek to a nearby café where the décor hasn’t changed since the ‘80s. Anne, pushing her walker like she’s an Olympian crossing a finish line, insists we call these excursions “dates,” and who am I to argue?

There’s something undeniably sweet, and slightly absurd, about how every errand has acquired the soft-focus glow of an anniversary dinner. The pharmacist nods at us with the knowing wink reserved for regulars in love, while Anne cracks jokes about getting a senior’s discount for sexy things like seizure prevention medication, which we call Julius Seizure. Between the laughter there’s an ominous shadow, lingering just outside the sliding doors—the knowledge that one day very soon, inevitably, there will be a last date. But until then, we hold hands at every turn and together we live, one date at a time.

Your friend,

Robert

https://robertmcbrydeauthor.com/