table for twoThe hubby and I do not get out much without the girls, but every now and then we pull it off. Our “dates” do not always occur at night, and our latest happened during lunchtime. I will be the first to admit there is not much romance in lunchtime. We chatted, we ate. The food was good, the company was good. Then the check arrived.

“Is this together or separate?”

Most folks don’t give much thought to such a simple question. Waiters and waitresses must ask it — what? — a hundred times a day.

I used to feel the same way, until servers started asking about what I thought was obvious. When we are with the girls, it is common to see one of us chase a toddler around the restaurant while the other performs hand-to-hand combat maneuvers trying to get her sister to eat. I am exaggerating a bit here for effect. My point is, few people would eat out with children, unless they were emotionally invested in the situation. We show up together, we parent together, and we leave together. In other words, we are together.

The lunch waiter probably couldn’t tell the hubby and I were together. I will give him that. I could have been Ken’s boss, or his client, or his fill-in-the-blank.

That said, I have been thinking about how I should answer such questions. This time, I waived my hand in a nonchalant manner and said: “I’m married to him.”

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