She had selected a newish restaurant for lunch, some kind of chain I think. Sweetwater something? Sweet Grass Grille? I don't recall.
We are seated, and before we receive the menus, I know what is going to happen. Music is playing. Some kind of 80's pop perhaps. It's a bit too loud for a mostly empty room.
Now, we are all just a bit touchy. My father-in-law had very recently died, and the rest of us are trying to go about our business of being a family and supporting each other. My mother-in-law makes a wincing face. My husband knows it's about the music. He gets up to ask the hostess if it can be turned down.
Upon his return he reports: "I told them that this is a restaurant not a disco and they need to turn that music down."
Good God. The man is not yet 50, yet he speaks as if he is waving around a cane. What the hell is he going to be like when he's 60?
Several minutes later, the manager comes over. It is a brisk day in northern Virginia, but he makes it look like it's a sweltering afternoon in Las Vegas. He informs us that the music will be turned down. And changed over to Country. I swear I saw him smirk when he said that. Frankly, I'd rather someone spit into my soup.
I guess this is what the long (or for some of us, not so long) trudge toward decrepitude looks like.
I don't know about my old man, but I'm thinking I might just like a disco.
For about five minutes.