UTFORSKBIBLIOTEK
searchclose
shopping_cart_outlined
exit_to_app
Glamour

WHY PRICEY DATE NIGHTS MUST DIE

ASK ANY EXPERT THE SECRET TO KEEPING THE marital spark alive, and they’ll likely talk your ear off about the value of regular date nights. I happen to be in a spark-filled union myself: My husband, D.J., and I have been married for five years, together for 12 (give or take a few breaks in our early twenties), and close friends for 15. Together we have a mortgage, a dog, a two-year-old son named Charlie, and a “cuddle blanket” we like to share while watching TV in our “comfies.” And while I prefer my husband’s company to that of anyone else—he’s a secret joke assassin and looks straight-up GQ in a suit—I loathe date night. In fact, I think the idea that a night on the town will make things sexier at home is the most expensive lie ever told.

Don’t believe me? Here is a decadent but not totally insane date-night tally for two in New York City in 2018: competent nanny for three hours, $60; drinks, dinner, and his-and-her desserts to be competitively shared with tiny spoons, approximately $153 after tax and tip; Uber home to avoid that awkward moment when it’s been three hours and five minutes, and we don’t know if we should pay the nanny for three hours or four, $20. (To save $20. I know. It’s weird.)

Approximate grand total: $233. Zero nookie included.

But it’s not just the financial obligation that stresses me out; it’s also the logistical labor that date night requires: preproduction that includes everything from making a reservation to finding a decent day-to-night outfit. Then there’s the fear that a caregiver might accidentally murder my kid, which can only be assuaged by an extra bottle of wine (marked up from $18.99 to $40.99, which just put our sexy date-night total at nearly $300).

Also baked into the cost is the expectation that a change of scenery and proximity to strangers will conjure up a more stimulating version of our dynamic. This visual of what “reconnecting” after a hard week should look like—our hands clasped across a candle-dotted tablescape, my stiletto gently feeling its way up my man’s trouser leg—feels like something ginned up by the execs at Traditional Gender Roles Advertising Inc. I suppose the joke’s on them when we spend the entire meal impersonating how Charlie says firetruck and eavesdropping on the table next to us.

Here’s an idea: Instead of dropping all that cash on low-grade anxiety and a hangover, I’m putting it toward a new cuddle blanket and slightly less droopy comfies. After all, Deej and I do our best flirting on the couch, pausing a movie 93 times to dig into tangents about our day—my mouth invariably drawn to the softest part of his neck. Or on second thought: Maybe I’ll use that cash to buy more of those candles that make our apartment smell like a tasteful brothel. At least that way we’ll be in the mood for sex. Cheap sex, that is.

Justine Harman is a senior editor at Glamour. Have a totally different take on #datenight? Tweet us at@glamourmag.

LOCATION: BEAUBOURG BRASSERIE IN LE DISTRICT, NYC

help