Last Friday morning in the midst of overdue writing assignments,
rolling hills of dirty laundry and an echo chamber for a fridge, I
got a super sexy call from my husband.
He was in NYC working on a project and I could tell he was
calling from a TV editing suite by the hollow and hushed tones
seeping through the phone.
"You need to meet me here tomorrow," he whispered.
"You know that event I'm going to? Yeah, well the seat next to
me just opened up and I have a ticket for you."
"No WAAAAY!" I gasped. "Um, how are we going to pull this
Back story: My husband had been invited to a benefit being
thrown in honor of Sting's 60th birthday Saturday night. This was
not a chicken dinner, dance to "celebration," bid on a basket of
handmade soaps sorta benefit. Oh no.
This was going to be a concert of epic proportions, with a line
up of musical superstars, housed in a vintage theater, that would
give TMZ a cocaine high sorta benefit.
Getting to join him in New York in less than 12 hours for this
thing was more than worth the last-minute mayhem that needed to
take place in order for this whole thing to go down.
We sprang into action.
By mid-afternoon, it was all lined up: Sitters, car to the
airport, meal plans, other logistics for the boys, and flights.
Done and done.
I left the next morning after watching two-thirds of my
9-year-old's football game, racing home to change out of my rain
boots, and grabbing my little overnight bag.
I got to his boutique hotel in Midtown at about 3 p.m., zipped up
to the 19th floor, and knocked on the shiny white door feeling all
secret mistress like
I kinda loved it.
No. I super loved it.
He texted me earlier that day asking if I was going to show up
in a trench coat and nothing else.
But after letting him know I thought it might create a code
orange situation at airport security, I opted for my hottest jeans
and a low-cut top.
It felt downright scandalous. A sensation not often conjured up
in my beloved native suburbia.
The line up went a little something like this: Intimate dinner
for two, pre-concert drinks with all the fancy people, a show I
will just never ever ever forget, Ray's pizza at 1a.m., a
"blissful" night's sleep, breakfast in Central Park, a bit of
shopping at Bergdorf's, and then, zoom, off to LaGuardia to catch
our ride home.
The whole way back to Chicago staring out the window at the sky,
I was floored by just how big of an impact a bit of spontaneous
combustion with your spouse can be.
Like most of our comrades with kids, my husband and I run
through the majority of our days like wind-up toys fueled primarily
by Vente Red-eyes with a steamed foam topper.
We try to connect over Raisin Bran and coffee and chaos in the
morning, or carpools and re-heated dinners and homework at night.
But we rarely get to break free, do something that's not on the
"to-do" list and basically re-enact a scene out of "Sex and the
I also realized the spontaneous, off-our-rockers moments don't
always have to be about last-minute trips to NYC and off the fa'
It's the spontaneity that is damn sexy.
So, I ask you, are you ready to get a little more
Here's a list I've started in my journal of how I plan to
proceed: (I don't really journal, it's more like the back page of a
notebook I borrowed from my kid).
* Beg grandpa to watch the boys one night and make a 9 p.m.
reservation at a local restaurant.
* Pack a "night-cap" picnic and hit the lakefront (five minutes
away) for a chat and glass of wine under the stars… before winter
hits, which could be any day now.
* Buy a GOOD bottle of bubbly, set up Scrabble after the dudes
go to bed and once again get trounced by my Scrabble savant of a
* Hit Vicki's Secret and buy the most stripper-ish thing I can
find. And then do that trench coat thing when he arrives home late
I only have four so far. But it's a start.
Please join the convo. And add some more in the comments.
We all want to know how YOU get your spontaneous ON - or
how you fantasize about doing so.
Meredith Sinclair is a freelance writer and blogger living with three quirky guys on Chicago's North Shore.
See more of Meredith's stories here.
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