Last night, my husband and I reaffirmed our undying love for one another in the tradition known as Date Night.
For most couples, this night involves dressing up, going out to a nice dinner, and sex.
For us, it meant jellybeans and piranhas.
It started when I came home from work yesterday afternoon, only to find my husband incapacitated on the couch.
He looked up at me, as though death were looming in the shadows.
“I’m dying of jellybeans,” he whimpered pathetically. That’s when I saw the now-empty 14 ounce bag of Starburst jellybeans next to the couch. I can’t comment on the lack of moderation—he found me in a similar state, thanks to the Girls Scouts of America a few weeks ago. It’s a sugar-induced match made in heaven, really.
“I have cancer of the jellybean.”
This was serious. There is only one known medical cure for cancer of the jellybean, and that is distraction through utter nonsense. Luckily, we have Netflix.
We needed a movie that was not only bad, but was such garbage that it cycled its way back up to become absolutely amazing. Contrary to popular belief, this process is not an easy one, and few movies have passed our strict guidelines to be considered Worthy. Over the years, we have found that two major requirements must be filled. First, there must be some sort of mutated sea creature out to kill all of the humans. The ability to jump out of the water and make things explode for no apparent reason is an absolute must. Second, it is imperative that it star some pop icon from our childhood. If it features several pop icons, we’re definitely on board. If said pop icons battle each other/make winking references to their former pop status/bicycle kick exploding piranhas, it becomes Date Night.
Like for most couples, Date Night signifies that something absolutely magical is about to take place. We begin to make the preparations. Out come the pajama pants. The mattress will be dragged out of the bedroom, and into the living room, and plopped directly in front of the TV. Because let’s face it, at this point, fuck it. The couch just isn’t good enough. Something of this caliber deserves more. Nachos will also be had, because GOOD GOD. Someone wrote an entire script about mutated exploding piranhas, and multiple people, presumably while keeping a straight face, agreed to work on it. How do you bicycle kick a piranha with a straight face? Was he a method actor, I wonder? Did he go down to the local aquarium, and talk shit to the fish? I have to admit, there is a significant part of me that truly hopes that this actor is actually the Daniel Day-Lewis of horrifically awesome movies, and spends four months living in insane conditions to mentally prepare for his role as Bicycle-Kicking Piranha Man.
And then, the sheer beauty of Date Night simply happens. It is effortless. Tears of laughter stream down both of our faces in a way that no intentional comedy has ever managed to accomplish.
I’m sure there are people who would point at our pajama pants, and tell us the romance is gone. But I can honestly say that, ninety-two minutes later, when we were informed that the piranhas had been stopped, I looked into his eyes, still slightly in shock from the sheer mass of corn syrup that no human should ingest in such a short span of time, and knew I loved him more at that moment than maybe I ever had.
I always look forward to Date Night.
Created: Apr 02, 2012fallingalice Document Media