My husband and I used to have an annual tradition of going to Dave and Buster’s for his birthday. It’s an expensive date between dinner and games, so it’s a once-a-year thing. We weren’t able to do it for the past two years, but this year we were fortunate enough to go. We took our daughter with us so it wasn’t much of a date, but he was so stoked that I didn’t even care.
See, there’s the thing: I hate the place. I call it a yuppie haven. I don’t even like the food. The place is crawling with yuppies after work in their suits, sneering at us in our obviously cheaper clothes, and it’s as loud as Chuck E Cheese—a place I don’t care much for, either. But he loves it, so I’m more than willing to go with him. Usually I have a drink, at least, which I can enjoy—but since I was on kiddo duty while he played games, I didn’t do that, either.