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Wednesday night is date night. A night out of the house with my husband without the girls. We usually go out to dinner. Then after an hour or so of eating and talking, we try to figure out what else we could possibly do before heading home. (Even though that is usually my first choice.)
It's funny that we actually have a hard time trying to decide what to do. We have ended up at the library or the bookstore. (I love those date nights!) Or, we will stop by a store to shop without little ones begging us to leave as soon as we walk through the doors. Most date nights, we are so tired, we end up heading home and relaxing on the couch together. (Of course, after we know for sure the girls are in bed and sleeping.)
Last night, my hubby made different plans for date night. He said to change into workout clothes. (Really?) He made sure I had my YMCA card. (Tonight?) He's really going to make me workout on date night?
Uh, yeah, he did.
But he planned more than a workout. He reserved a court for us to play racquetball. (Note: I have NEVER played racquetball.) Four years ago, before the girls were born, I took tennis lessons. I learned quickly that racquetball and tennis are two very different sports.
I struggled in the beginning and was afraid of getting pegged by the ball. I hugged the wall. I covered my head. I screamed. (I screamed screamed screamed.) My voice echoed in the court.
Yet, my husband wanted to teach me. He gave me supportive tips. He made me practice my swing. He yelled out my next move. Within the hour, he complimented me on my progress. I'm no match for him, but I can see why he plays racquetball for fun.
And it was quite a workout. My face was red. I was sweating. My heart was pounding. I was a little out of breath. It was a better workout than a quick walk on the treadmill. He said I would be sore today. (Ouch.)
I think we may have a new date night ritual.