I met my husband at a Chinese restaurant in Brookvale after a wild night out. It was my sisters soon to-be husband’s birthday – I walked in late, spotted him and shoved my friend out of the way to sit opposite him at the table. My brother in-law had told me I should meet his school mates several times. Translated: you go out with losers, find a decent bloke. Which apparently meant anyone but my husband.
This made me want him twice as much. I was moving the following weekend and concocted some cock and bull story about not having anyone to assist with it. I got my way, he helped. One of our first nights out was a pub called the Newport Arms where I pulled my drinking boots out to impress him and skulled vodka. I was plastered after 4 minutes and he spent the entire night pushing my boobs back into the halterneck top they kept escaping from. I made him head onto a nightclub where I danced and he looked after my boobs. We went home at 4am and had wild sex. It must have worked because he married me.
13 years on, four more kids and date nights didn’t exist. Which was why when he asked me Saturday morning if I wanted to go out I was more excited than my kids at dessert time. I went and got a new dress, showered and got in the car. We ended up at Circular Quay in a Chinese restaurant – ordered a shit load of food and inhaled the best duck pancakes I have ever consumed. We didn’t drink because I gave up years ago and he is recently retired from being an animal. We discussed renovating the house, his personal trainer he’s employed starting Monday, kids shit and my self diagnosed plantar fascilitis I am suffering from. At 9pm he started yawning, I was rooted (not literally) and we left – he scoffed a double scoop of gelato as we walked to the car.
We got home, he went to the big bed that he shares with the toddler who won’t move out, I went to the medium bed where I proceeded to get up three times to the baby who was intent on making me pay for enjoying myself without her.
And around 4am I thought – what the fuck have I become? I used to be a wild, boob flashing piece of gear. I used to get home at 4am, skull shots and dance in cages at seedy city night spots wearing halterneck tops. Look at me now! What the hell happened?
13 years, 5 kids, about 10kg and a whole lot of life. Would I change it? Not for all the tea in China.
Except the cage dancing. I wouldn’t mind giving that one last crack.