He was overjoyed when the Princess graduated from high school.
But nothing -- I repeat, nothing -- thrills my brave, strong husband like a nice long night of . . .
I suppose I should clarify here. The dinner theater to which I refer is an equine, sword and testosterone-ridden affair known as Medieval Times in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. It offers stunning visuals! It's filled with beautiful horses! It features amazingly talented performers!
It is not my thing at all!
Part of the reason is the horses, because horses and I don't mix. I've ridden exactly five times in my life, and of those five, I've been thrown three.
The first time, at age 12, a green-broke horse gleefully launched me onto a jagged tree stump, whereupon I received a four-inch gash on my back. I should have had it stitched up, but I neglected to tell anyone because I wasn't supposed to be riding in the first place. So, in all my 12-year-old wisdom, I bled and suffered for months in silence rather than risk telling my mother.
As you can see, I was brilliant.
As you can imagine, I still have a huge scar.
The other two horses that threw me were similar assholes, one of whom broke my nose. So yes, I avoid horses except to gaze upon them.
From a very far distance.
Which leads us back to Medieval Times.
During our recent vacation, the Husband wanted -- nay (neigh) demanded -- to go. We've been there twice before, and though it makes him so happy, I wasn't looking forward to attending again because I remembered it as a loud, crowded, horse-intensive affair with, worst of all, absolutely no alcohol.
I know, I know -- some of you might say You don't need alcohol to have a good time!
To which I would reply, Of course you do! Especially when there are horses around!
Luckily, I remembered wrong about the hooch, because one of the first things we saw upon arriving at Medieval Times was a very large, very overpriced bar. I put a second mortgage on the house real quick so I could buy a beer, then the Husband, the Hobo and I settled in our seats for the show.
Oh, he could barely contain himself. This is a man who will randomly shout "MEDIEVALLL TIMESSS!" while getting dressed for work in the morning. The Hobo also enjoys it, which makes sense given his love of swords, dirt and all things violent.
Out came the performers and the damn horses. Jousting! Dust! Way more testosterone than necessary!
As we watched, I brought up the fact that it surprises me the Husband enjoys le theatre so. I mean, there were grown men in tights and what appeared to be miniskirts.
"I can't believe you like this stuff," I told him. "It seems a little too Renaissance fair--y for you."
Smiling, never removing his eyes from the arena, he shook his head. "Well the Guys At Work say Renaissance fairs are cool!"
Ah, the TGAWs. That explains it.
You remember the TGAWs, yes? It's been years since I've written about them, but as you'll recall, Jesus had his disciples, the president has his advisers, and my husband has The Guys At Work. Aristotle? Ha. Socrates? Scoff. Who needs them when we have the astute counsel of Mark, Biff, Bob and Other Bob.
They. Know. Everything. And as a wife, I. Know. Nothing.
The show continued, and I feigned enthusiasm as best I could. But since I couldn't match the boys' unrestrained happiness, I decided to take a quick restroom break and avoid horses. I arose, climbed the stairs, stepped into the colorful, castle-themed lobby, and it was there I beheld something wonderful:
Another bar. And another bar only meant one thing:
That's right. I could stay at this second bar, take out a third mortgage on the house, and slowly sip a beer in the quiet, nearly deserted lobby with no dust, no swords and absolutely no horses whatsoever.
Anticipating peace, free time and maybe a nice summer shandy, I walked slowly toward the second bar. I reached back, unzipped my purse and grabbed some cash. And that's when I saw it.
A Medieval Times t-shirt. In the Husband's size.
Here, I had a dilemma. Should I buy a beer and sit and enjoy it in peace? Or should I be an awesome wife and buy him a t-shirt? Beer? T-shirt? Beer? T-shirt? Beer? T-shirt?
Most of you know me pretty well, so you will probably guess at what I chose.
And you would probably be wrong because I bought the damn t-shirt. Plus a mug to go with it.
No peace, no quiet, no more beer for me. I paid for the items and ambled back into the theater where the horses raced, the swords clashed and the boys sat waiting, watching . . .