[POSTSCRIPT: several have inquired, a few at church this morning, with the question, “so how was…breakfast?” Because he has “an acute sense of propriety,” a True Gentleman never tells. He will say, however, the best part was the laughter. And after 23 years, he’ll take that all day long.]
A few weeks ago unbeknownst to me Alyson purchased a “romance package” from a local boutique hotel. The deal includes dinner at Garibaldi’s, the restaurant where Tired Dating began six long months ago, and one overnight stay in above average environs at the boutique hotel conveniently located half a block from the restaurant. Our date is tomorrow night, so you know what I am thinking? Riiight.
I couldn’t be happier. Any man reading this is happy too, whether he admits it or not to his spouse or girlfriend. Although probably afraid to cop to his smirk, upon reading this entry he may explain the grin as the byproduct of how much trouble he imagines I will incur for writing this entry, let alone posting it. But if tortured to truthfulness, he will admit it. He will scream it… “I am smiling for Kevin, because he is going on a date at a hotel, which means he gets Hotel Breakfast! Aaaaahahahahaha!”
Perhaps it’s a fraternal thing, but common to most men is a healthy and pervasive expectation for Hotel Breakfast. And we don’t care how we get it. Gourmet Buffet with waffle and omelet station. Sit down order from the menu. Quick and free dash to yesterday’s donuts and egg substitute sterno tray. Or the bag of almonds from the mini-bar. Doesn’t matter. There’s hopefulness, an excitement. Hotel Breakfast, in varied and surprising form, will be different from what we consume at home.
Imagining hotel breakfast triggers a miniscule particle in our brain which then alerts chemicals and nerves and natural occurring narcotics to direct the limbic, circulatory, musculature, skeletal and hydraulic systems to contemplate the meal ahead. I think it might even border on obsession. We wonder in delirious thought: “Bacon…will it be maple cured, or perfectly crisp? Will there be an obnoxious cornucopia at a big table inviting me towards breads and rolls and danish and loaves I haven’t seen since the last hotel date? Will the fruit be carved into unknown geometric shapes? Can I pour my milk into my junior box of Frosted Flakes like I did when I was a kid?” No, wait; retract that one, wrong memory bank. But you get my drift. And I almost forgot the most important one, “Will I be allowed seconds?”
Given the full disclosure already offered in the above paragraphs on behalf of truthful men everywhere I guess I should admit to times when our buddies, co-workers, and the occasional homeless man selling newspaper at the corner might happen to find out about an upcoming hotel date. It’s like a relay team sharing the Gold medal, high fives for everyone. The lone caveat is the guy who has become accustomed to skipping breakfast or going without for one reason or another, bless his heart. He really doesn’t know how to process the option of chopped pecans on a waffle, much less a cold cup of yogurt with homemade granola. Mostly he’s just bitter, and no one really likes to be around him anyway. I know, I know, it’s sophomoric, but breakfast at a hotel? In the words of Brother Dave, “the worst I had was wonderful.”
But a myopic view of Hotel Breakfast is discouraged. It’s not the most important thing on the date. And it never will be. One focuses solely on breakfast at ones peril. Maybe the kitchen is closed, or the doughnut delivery is late, or there is an early checkout mandated by circumstance. It happens. And when it does, the important thing to realize in a relationship is this: neither man nor woman can live by Hotel Breakfast alone.
(There’s always lunch.)