I am back after a long weekend away. We left Thursday after work for a fast trip to Louisville. There's a ginormous truck show there every year and I absolutely adore everything about all of it.
I love the show--talk about people watching! I love the city--food, bourbon, horses. Seriously, not much better than that.
But mostly, I love the time with Jim. Like everyone else, our lives are busy and we get pulled in a zillion directions every day. His company is doing well, and that means he has a lot on his plate. His phone rings at all hours of the day and night. He's got loads to arrange/rearrange, driver issues to fix, trucks to maintain, bookwork to do ... and then he's taking a class on top of it all.
To be honest, even though we're in the same house, often at the same time, we're very rarely moving/thinking/being together.
In fact, sometimes we get kind of "far apart" even though we're sleeping in the same bed, if that makes sense.
Which, makes something like a weekend trip to Louisville all the more appealing to me.
Yes, I knew he'd have drivers there and that we'd spend a little time with them. Yes, I knew we'd try to pack too much into too little time. Yes, I knew we'd arrive very late Thursday night and be back on the road for home very early Sunday morning so Jim could get weekly payroll and paperwork done. And yes, I not-so-secretly pouted a little bit about all of those things, selfishly wanting just a bit more together time.
Which is why, when I literally ran in the back door on Thursday night, pausing not at all on the way to my bedroom to take a quick inventory of the pile I'd tossed into a carry-on suitcase that morning, apologizing for being late, jabbering like a whirlwind, I was so surprised to hear this:
"Pack something nice. I made dinner reservations for Friday night."
(Insert that record scratching/screeching sound here.)
What? Did I just hear that correctly? I stopped dead in my tracks and it got very quiet.
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I made dinner reservations someplace nice for tomorrow night. Make sure you have something to wear or I'll never hear the end of it," he said.
Now, I need you to understand this. My husband is a lot of things. He is good in crisis. He is kind to old people. He is occasionally quite funny. But he is NOT a maker of reservations at fancy restaurants. He is NOT a planner of romantic evenings.
"Let's go. I'll tell you about it on the way," he said.
I zipped the suitcase closed, still sort of confused. He threw the bags in the car. And we hit the road.
As our house got smaller in the rear view, I savored the discovery of this mystical, delicious information. I nibbled away at the corners of his secret like it was my last piece of Dove chocolate.
He, of course, just wanted to tell me where we were going, like the practical man he is. I, however, wanted to hear the whole story in infinite detail. When did you have this idea? (Wednesday.) How did you know what restaurant to call? (I Googled it.) Why did you pick the one you picked? (I looked at the menu.)
Finally, after I had all of the details of the events leading up to my arrival at home just an hour before, I let him tell me the name of the restaurant.
It was this: http://www.rivue.com/
Yeah, white linens. Did I mention that the restaurant rotates 25 stories up?
To be continued ...
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