After the dark cloud that has been following us lately, we thought that we owed it to ourselves to go out on the town and just celebrate … life. This week brought a lot of birthdays (happy birthday Janrae Frank!) and we thought that the perfect excuse to go out. One thing that you should know is that I’ve always had a heart for singles ministry. A lot of my time in “ministry” has been with singles groups, the over-looked group in a church (unless they need people to staff the nursery). Church culture pushes “the family” and have a way of making singles seem like they are doing something wrong by not being married (or worse, like incomplete people or even “sinners”).
Now, the twenty-something crowd loves my wife and I. I’m a pastor-type that they can invite to go to night clubs with (hey, I’m all about keeping my finger on the pulse of things … and having excuses to ditch the kids). However, I came to two inescapable conclusions while hanging out at Jillians:
1) To quote Cedric the Entertainment “I’m a grown ass man.”
2) My wife has to outlive me.
Two rules will govern this post: there will be no pictures and no pics (though many of my co-conspirators hang out on my message board), but let me tell you, I think that I’ve gotten old. Sometime in the last month or so. In theory, Jillians sounded like a cool place to hang out. Hibachi grill restaurants on the first level, pool and video games on the second level, and a dance club and a bowling alley on the third level (with a bar on every floor). I ain’t got time for throwing food as part of our dinner entertainment (unless it’s at a family dinner). Folks shouldn’t have to spend a good chunk of an evening combing hair out of their weave, that’s all I’m saying. I ain’t got time for drinks called “blow jobs” or “red-headed sluts” (tasty though they may be). And as always, some people need to remember that Jesus turned water into wine, not tequila.
Tequila is no one’s friend.
Now, I missed out on much of the club scene when I was in my own 20s (I had started a singles ministry called, well, Twenties). Still, I ended up breaking my vow of never going dry-humping-to-a-beat (read: being married means never having to go dancing again) with my wife. Now, I love young people (see, that’s when I knew I was old: I started referring to twenty somethings as “young people”), but I shouldn’t have to consult the Kama Sutra for the latest dance steps. Though I did think the picture of some of our group pole-dancing might make for a good picture for our first church bulletin. “From left to right you see the co-pastor’s wife, the head of our children’s ministry, a member of our arts team, and the wife of our volunteer research scholar (or whatever we’re calling him, we suck at titles).” Thus, the no pictures rule, that and the fact that there are still pictures of me in a coconut bra, from a luau I threw once, floating around out there; leading people to point and ask “he does what at the church?” I will admit that those present with the last name Broaddus (and there were a few of us representing), still know how to break ‘em off some on a dancefloor. Maybe I should revise this. I’m too old to club, my wife is an eternal 20-something (reverting back to her clubbing past, including enjoying being hit on by guys. She has a slightly different recollection of this evening). Though, I was also reminded why I don’t go clubbing with my siblings. I don’t need to see that.
You see, “I’m a grown ass man.”
Which is why my wife has to outlive me. I’m not trying to be that brother too old for the club. You know the one, there’s always one. Standing at the end of the bar. Drink in one hand, eyeing the ladies just a little too hard. With a little too much gray, or a too balding thatch of hair. A little too old school. I don’t have time to do the dating scene anymore, faking the empty banter. I don’t have time to keep up with the attitude and fashions of the day. Heck, I don’t even have time to be sensitive to another person’s quirks. And, frankly, I don’t have the time, patience, or inclination to break in someone new (my wife has no choice but to stay with me as once you go black … your credit is messed up, too). Long live the queen.
I’m her “grown ass man.”
Okay, that’s it. Lack of sleep makes me loopy. I’m rambling like an idiot. Another blog entry to make our head pastor proud and giving him another excuse to conveniently forget that I have a blog (read: plausible deniability). Yet none of this is going to stop me from hitting this here little “post blog” button.
Comment on this bit of rantus interruptus anyway you want (I don’t know where you’re reading it from) but if you want to guarantee me seeing it, do so at my message board.