Showing People How It's Done

Happy Valentine’s Day. Or, as the retail industry calls it, Happy “let’s end those New Year’s Resolutions Day” or “let’s make single people feel bad Day” or “let’s drive mommies nuts with the Valentines and the boxes and the glitter Day.”

My sunshine and I were not born yesterday, but we did celebrate Valentine’s Day yesterday because only dummies go out on the actual day. Trust me, we learned the hard way. See, 19 years ago, on the actual Valentine’s Day 1997, I agreed to become Mrs. Sunshine. It wasn’t easy. It included three different restaurants, a nervous Sunshine fidgeting with the ring box in his pocket all night (while the future Mrs. Sunshine - that’s me - wondered “what the heck? Is ‘jock itch’ a real thing? What about ‘pocket pool?” “Why is it so hot in here? Oh, because they’ve crammed in 50% more tables. Must be why I can’t use my elbows, too.” “Seriously…what is he doing in his pocket?!”), and an eventual proposal back at his place because the third and last restaurant was so crowded, there was no room to properly slice a steak, let alone get down on his knee.

I planned our dinner this year. Since we don’t exchange actual gifts, this was my way of saying “I love you” and “boys shouldn’t always have to plan things” and “take this one off your ‘honey do’ list so you can focus on more pressing items.” I conferred with foodie friends and food blogs and read reviews about the latest and greatest epicurean establishments in our fair city. I chose one from an elite list of restaurants we call “date night” places. You know the kind….candlelight, white tablecloths, at least one item on the menu you’re not sure how to pronounce or even what it is, and no kids menu, nary a kid in sight. 

We got gussied up. Well, as much as two 40something, decidedly unhipsters can. I’ll say, ladies, we got the longer end of the stick in this area. We can throw on a dress, a skirt or black pants and a cute top and call it a day. The right necklace, purse, and/or shoes can complete the transaction. Boys, on the other hand, must labor over questions such as “jacket?” “Tie or no tie?” “Button up and, if so, how much is it buttoned up?” There are double-digit choices of pants. The choices seem endless. The bottom line is I’m ready first, with 20 minutes to spare, and use that time deciding between boots or heels and which purse to take.

The sad fact is, we are always - always - overdressed. These moments when we’re childfree and off eating by ourselves in a nice place, after six o’clock, are few and far between. We always look nice. At least one of us usually looks cute (it’s him). And inevitably there’s always some jackass in jeans, flip flops, shorts, a hat and sometimes all four seated in my line of vision.

This happened last night. We went to a cute little French bistro. It was dimly lit, oozing a romantic vibe, the wine list was comprehensive, entrees were $30+, it was, by design, not kid friendly, and an A-list actress was seated two tables over. Then we had to look at this doofus all night:

You can’t see the full ensemble but the lower half is decked out in jeans and sockless loafers. His other three dining companions all looked presentable and dignified. The other dude at the table was wearing a crisp button down and a jacket. I wondered if, as they met for the evening, other dude was thinking “damn, I knew I didn’t have to wear this jacket?” or maybe, “hey, John McEnroe called and wants his Sunday brunch look back?”

Nashville has a vibe and it’s part of what makes our city so cool and hip. We embrace old and new money equally. At the same restaurant, heck, even at the same table, you can have the makings of a pretty good joke — a rabbi, a priest, a music industry exec, a healthcare exec, a politician and an 80’s rockstar. But there’s something, well, just disappointing, when you get rid of your kid, you get out of your yoga pants and dust off something from the “going out” collection in your closet, you pay handsomely for a nice dinner, and there’s a hoople the next table over looking like he just came from a baseball game. 

Is this the end of civilization as we know it? Is it the continued dumbing down of America? Has getting dressed up for a nice meal gone the way of thank you notes and RSVPs and other civilized manners? Was I sitting there longing for my yoga pants? You bet I was, especially after that last piece of bread. But then I looked at my sunshine and myself and thought, “no, if necessary, we will single handedly remind people how it’s done.”

Mr. and Mrs. Sunshine, showing people how it's done since 1997