Frasier:

As the profile to the left indicates, this blog is a bit of “He Said/She Said” advice for the battle worn middle agers.  Think of this as the dating equivalent of “Jackass: The Movie” with “DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME” flashing underneath it.

I mean, you can only light a bottle rocket from your ass so many times before you are going to get burned, right?  And once in a while, if you do not pay attention, you open your mouth and seemingly shove a little bottle rocket into your backside.  And you don't know why.

It's called baggage, people.  Lots and lots of baggage. 

Our first example of this was a seemingly innocuous gesture offered by me to Elsa.  We were going to a comedy connection.  It was a big deal, this adult night out for the two of us.  We were out in public, which is a little odd, as whenever we get the opportunity, we typically wind up having a hard time keeping our hands off one another.  We have kids, obligations, jobs, job searches, and 90 miles between us.  Face time is at an excruciating minimum.

So when we do get together we're horny teenagers in middle aged bodies.  How pathetic is that?  We have yet to inflict ourselves on our friends.  This was a test of sorts.  To see if we could behave in public... sort of.  

So having picked up the tickets at the Will Call window, I had a flashback to my, uh, previous relationship. 

Whenever tickets were acquired, an outstretched hand immediately appeared.  There was no verbal communication, typically, just the hand.  The snapping of fingers was long ago dispensed with based on the severity with which that hand outstretched.  It said enough.  

The rationalization for this need to have their ticket in their hand as offered by the “it-can’t-happen-soon-enough-that-she-is-the-former-Mrs.-Frasier” was the need to have the ticket in hand in the event she and I were separated.  Now, for many of these it happened to be for professional sports where it made sense given different lines to enter the stadium and the like.  But it was a force of habit that showed up for such simple things as movie tickets when the distance between the acquisition point and where the tickets were taken could be measured in feet, let alone yards.

 So I figure it is one of those old saws taught young ladies to always have money for a cab ride home out on dates whether with some new interest or your husband of 20 odd years.  

Got the context? 

So, having picked up the tickets at the Will Call window before Elsa and I headed back out of the theatre to look for something to eat – which in and of itself could be a humor blog post – I turned to Elsa with ticket in hand and said unguardedly, “Here, do you want your ticket in case we get separated?”

Well, Elsa’s (beautiful, big) brown eyes grew wide and, well, not so beautiful looking as she looked at me, startled, and said, “No, you ASSHOLE, if we get separated I don’t want you to head to the theatre, I want you to try to find me.  JESUS.”

So needless to say this did not go as I had assumed it would based on what I knew as normal from my marital relationship formed early in the Reagan Administration.  I gave out a nervous laugh, which I guess would be akin to throwing chum into a shark tank, as Elsa was on a roll, which I will let her explain:

Elsa:

 He laughs a lot, does Frasier, but this is a new relationship, so I don’t always know what the laughter means.

He’s handing me a theatre ticket “in case we get separated.” Now it’s clear that there is some sort of salvageable impulse behind this gesture. For a nanosecond, I try to go with it. But…

We’re in downtown Worcester. The theater itself is a grand affair with your chandeliers, miles o’ carpeting, and brassy staircases. But outside the theater, it’s still Worcester. Surrounding the theater like a sticky old fleece blanket is an array of check-cashing businesses, convenience stores, bail-bond agents, bus stops serving as homeless shelters, and all the good things that a defunct downtown has to offer.  The man I’m on a date with has just intimated that we might get separated in this neighborhood. I wonder just what he’s got on his mind.

We have to go find something to eat; we plan to venture out and scavenge a meal. How might we be separated? Well, I guess if we were walking along, and one of us got mugged, the other might just keep walking, thinking to himself “Well, at least she still has her Ron White ticket. When she’s done being mugged, she can just head on back to the theater. We can catch up there. That’s fine. I’ve done my date-ly duty.” Or maybe we’ll be separated because he’ll get hit by a bus. Of course, that might be an awkward turn for a date, but AS LONG AS I HAVE MY TICKET TO A COMEDY SHOW, I’ll be OK.  I’ll just lean over his flattened, gurgling remains and say slowly and loudly “Don’t. Worry. I. Have. My. Ticket. I Still Have Time To Catch The Opening Act.”

And then, of course, I’ll be running off, to laugh my ass off at Ron White.

I have no intention of being separated from this man in this neighborhood, but if I do get separated and find out later that once I’d disappeared he took himself to the show, watched hours of comedy, all the while glancing at the empty chair next to his and shrugging his shoulders (Look what she’s missing, the idiot!), when I get unlost I’m going to kick his ass.

I look up at him and see that he’s laughing at my riff, but there’s something underneath that laugh that strikes me as being bewildered. Maybe sad. Certainly vulnerable. Don’t know what it is, but my instinct is to hang on tight. No getting separated tonight.

 Lesson Learned?  Keep the Ticket Unless Requested ... I think.  Right Elsa?  Right?  Where are You?  Behind the Wheel? Elsa?  Honey? ...

Next up: When Codependents Collide ... And Have Sex ... Really, How Bad Can It Be?