The view from over the hill

Basil and me in Cape Cod in 2009. Even then we would have danced all night, I think.

You know, I joked about our ages a little earlier this week when I wrote about our 19th wedding anniversary (you can read that post here), but after last night, I think the joke may be on Basil and me.

We went out to celebrate a bit, choosing a new burger place in town we’d heard good things about.

Well, we almost didn’t go.

Basil took one good look at me at the end of the day, saw how tired I was and offered to get takeout. I brushed him off. We rarely go out. Even Catherine urged us to break the routine.

So we rallied.

Unlike 20 years ago, when I would have spent a lot of time choosing something fashionable to wear, I slipped on comfortable low-heeled shoes and comfy pants and was standing by the door in five minutes flat. I knew if I sat down, I was not getting up. (And no, the pants didn’t have an elastic waist, but they did offer comfort and warmth in what I guessed would be a chilly air-conditioned space. And I was right — should have brought a sweater, too.)

We went out around 6:30 — had to beat the crowds, after all.

Catherine declined to join us. She waved us off, urging us to stay out of her hair for a while. I assured her we’d be back soon. We were already falling asleep.

At the restaurant, Basil had to put on his dime store magnifying eyeglasses to read the menu. I had to tip my regular glasses down to the end of my nose and hold the menu REAL close to my face to make out the words.

It was hard to hear above the cacophony of voices and dining room hustle and bustle. Twenty years ago, we wouldn’t have given it a thought. Last night, it was damn irritating.

And they first seated us at a small table in the bar — the kind of table we would have been quite happy with ages ago. Not now. We asked to move to a comfortable booth.

Our advancing ages became apparent in other ways, too: Dinner was delicious, but we found ourselves choosing less by what might taste good than by how our digestive systems might react. Nothing spicy or too greasy, mixed greens instead of fries so we’d be sure to get a serving of veggies (well, one for one of us anyway).

There was no room for dessert. Coffee got a pass, too; it was much too late to consider caffeine.

As we left, itching to get home to our pajamas, we passed a long line of people waiting for tables, and congratulated ourselves on getting there when we did.

Driving home, we shook our heads. Who the heck eats dinner at 8:30 pm?

Not us old people.