Let’s cut to it, shall we?

The dinner …

Were the neighbors nice? Of course.

Was the food good? Outstanding.

Was it awkward? Abso-friggen-lutely.

So that’s pretty much it. What I had wanted to elaborate upon was how I traded places with my husband for one whole week and it was SO. MUCH. FUN.

You’ve seen Freaky Friday, right? Vice Versa? Like Father Like Son? There was a slew of 1970s and 80s films that played out a bodily switch up of sorts between the two main characters in the movie. Whether it was a wish made at the exact same moment, or a weird African potion, or some Thai souvenir skull, the bottom line was that the protagonists swapped bodies for however long and got to experience what it was literally like to wear the other person’s shoes.

So yeah, that didn’t happen to Clifford and me – the swapping bodies thing, to be clear. BUT, I did get to play his role in our lives for one week.

As I’ve mentioned countless times, Clifford hates people. He is the introvert of our twosome. He hates public functions. He hates family dinners. He hates the movies because there are people there. He hates stores because there are people there. The list goes on … And when it comes to more intimate events where the likelihood of him having to interact with another human being increases exponentially, his desire to delay, throw a tantrum, do or say anything to avoid said  interaction increases exponentially as well.

He’s been this way since I met him, though I feel his Grumpy Old Man demeanor (because that’s what I call it) has gotten worse over the years. Sometimes I know he does it just to mess with me, but other times, it’s just a habit that he automatically rejects any social proposal I throw his way.

For instance, let’s discuss time. Clifford goes by what I call “Geiselmayr Time”. He is perpetually late. It’s part of his stalling tactics. It’s also one of my top pet peeves. If Clifford isn’t at least 30-40 minutes late arriving wherever he needs to be, then he’s too early as far as he’s concerned.  I, however, go by “Gross Time”: If you are five minutes early, you are actually late. I thank my father for instilling that in me.  I’ve mentioned the family synchronizing watches at King’s Island before, right?

At least 2 hours before we need to be somewhere, I begin with the reminders. He usually continues to just do whatever it is he’d doing while blatantly ignoring me. Sometimes he whines. Actually, oftentimes he whines about not going and not wanting to do whatever it is we’re doing. Whining about hating people and whining about wanting to stay home. Actually, sometimes the whining is substituted for outright defiance. As I repeatedly remind him where we need to be when, he repeatedly reminds me that he’s not going. I was the one that committed us to xyz, not him, so he doesn’t have to go. This drives me nuts!

About an hour out he might nod as an acknowledgement that my words did not fall upon deaf ears, but he still actively avoids preparing to leave. Usually still whining or reminding me that he’s not going to go and I might as well leave now without him.

30 minutes out, I begin to panic slightly for fear of being late while I begin to nag.

10 minutes out, I go from panicked to fully agitated as I know now, officially, we will not be on time.

About 5 minutes before we need to leave, he starts to move. Finally stopping what he’s doing, he drags himself upstairs and decides he needs to shower. Wherever we’re going, he wants to be clean. Ulcers continue to develop in my stomach as I’m caught in a mix of emotions – frustration, embarrassment, FRUSTRATION, depression, frustration, anxiety, and frustration. Every time we are set to go somewhere, he does this. Every time, we are late.

When I was newer to flying and wanted to be sure we were at the gate in plenty of time so we could be one of the first to board the plane (so not how I fly these days), Clifford, who was quite seasoned in flying the friendly skies, would humor me — at first. He would settle himself next to me at the gate. He’d pull out a magazine or play with his phone while we waited for the attendant to call our zone. Just as they announced our row was boarding, Clifford would turn to me and say, “I’m going to go grab a drink. I’ll be back.” And he’d head to the bar as we were supposed to be entering the plane. I don’t know how I didn’t have a complete meltdown in the middle of the airport back in those days.

So when Clifford came to me about the neighbors and going to dinner with them, I realized this was my golden opportunity for a little payback.

First, I told him in no uncertain terms would I even consider having dinner with the neighbors we actively avoided for the better part of six and a-half years. He didn’t think I was serious. I totally was. He laughed at first like it was a funny har-har kind of thing but then when he realized I was serious, I witnessed the panic slowly creeping in behind his eyes.

As the week progressed, I insisted I wasn’t going. OR that I had something else to do. OR that fine, maybe I’d go, but I’d be on “Geiselmayr Time”. He begged and pleaded and bribed. The day of the event he sent constant reminders which turned into nagging as I ignored them all. He was desperate.

15 minutes prior to, he was speedily pulling in the drive from work so he could quickly change clothes. He rushed upstairs calling to me (I was finishing my makeup in the bathroom, but the door was closed). He asked me if I was ready. The neighbors would be picking us up shortly. That’s when I explained through the door how busy I’d been all day and still needed to take a shower.

Clifford went from this.

Mildly confused and disillusioned.

To this.

Full-on spastic break-down.

In 5 seconds flat. It was awesome. I felt …validated. For one week, Clifford saw what it was like to be me living with him. It was fantastic.

Two things to note before you go oooing and awwwing over my husband-who-hates-people going all Disney on my ass by making a friend.

1. We aren’t having dinner with the neighbors we completely hate and are constantly plotting against (for those of you who are familiar with my daily diatribes). So it’s not exactly like I need to pin a medal on my man for going above and beyond.
2. Our relationship with all of our neighbors is more like something from The Burbs than from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. i.e. This is going to be SO awkward.

Clifford and I moved into our neighborhood about 6 and a-half years ago. It’s pretty much sheer dumb luck that we know the names of any of our neighbors. One thing I learned when moving to the suburbs of Atlanta – people are not as friendly as you think. Sharing apple pies and having cookouts isn’t something I’ve seen. It’s really a keep your head down and don’t make waves type of community. I am certain some neighborhoods are friendlier than others, and it’s not like the people who I’ve met in mine have been rude or mean (except the renters next door we despise), they just don’t go out of their way to introduce themselves to the new couple moving in. Or go out of their way for anyone really …

Don’t get me wrong, we all do the obligatory nod when we see each other or the hand wave as we pull out of our drives. We just don’t talk to one another. That said, I can name three neighbors: Lonny, Howard, and Howard’s Wife. That’s something, right?

Back to dinner …

Clifford decided to be a Good Samaritan last weekend and help the neighbors when their water main burst. He fixed it for them and somehow bonded with the man of their house. He came home to tell me that they wanted to take us to dinner to thank him. He also mentioned the guy reminded him of what he’d (Clifford) be like when he was older.

We don’t do dinners with people. We don’t socialize. I may be an extrovert, but my husband is the introvertiest introvert there is. And he generally hates people.  He also hates going to dinner, because there’s people. So after I picked my jaw up from the floor, I listened as he said the ball was in my court. He put it on me.

When they requested dinner, he was going to check with “the wife” and get back to them.  Oh no. This ball was NOT in my court! This was all him. I didn’t want to go to an awkward dinner with neighbors I don’t know and have actively not known for 6 and a-half years. Yes, I know that makes me sound like a terrible person, but I’ve never actually owned the title Not Terrible Person.  So whatever.

I inevitably passed the ball right back. On Monday when I was taking the dogs out and the man of the house saw me (or rather cornered me) as he was headed into work, he asked me for a date for our dinner. I smiled and played the vague card as I said, “Oh yeah, Clifford mentioned something about that. Whenever is convenient.”

Man of the house, “How about tonight?”

“OHHHH. Tonight is the ONE night I can’t. But I can any other night. Why don’t you check with Clifford and sort it out and I will be sure I’m available.” Solid chest pass right back to the hubs.

So Clifford texted back and forth with his new buddy and decided a Friday night dinner would be perfect for the four of us. Did I mention that the neighbors are at least 20 years our senior? So yeah. I’ll basically be dining with my folks tonight.

It’s funny how much I don’t want to do this. I can’t even figure out why I’m so opposed to tonight’s affair because I’m the one who likes meeting new people and hanging out and doing dinners. Maybe it’s because they aren’t new. Maybe it’s because 6 and a-half years ago we put this couple in their box and I like people to stay in their designated boxes. Or maybe it’s because I have no control and I’m kind of a control freak. Little bit. Or maybe I just wanted to curl up with a bottle of red tonight…

However, there has been one glorious thing to come out of this setup – it gave me a maniacal genius plan. A chance at role reversal for one whole week. I have totally Freaky Friday’d Clifford for the last seven days and it’s been awesome. I promise to share it in detail – after tonight’s dinner. Stay tuned.

To be continued …