So, Hank and I hit one of our neighborhood restaurants on New Year's Eve. I marched up to the owner and explained that my daughter was at a fun party and unless he wanted a nine year-old to have a wilder New Year's Eve than her deserving father, he had better make sure that I had a rockin' good time.
He stared at me over his glasses.
"All I'm asking," I continued, "is that somebody ends up dancing on the bar tonight."
"Ohhhhhh! You're looking for that kind of night," the owner answered. He put his arm around me and turned to my wife. "Hank, I'll be taking your husband away from the evening. He'll be fine when I give him back, but he'll be spent."
"Oooh," the hostess chimed in, "That's a good word: spent!"
"Yes, very spent," the owner explained.
I considered my New Year's Eve options, which now apparently included a lot of exhausting gay sex, but still chose to have dinner with my wife. I'm a good husband that way.
Dinner was tasty though, and we did make it to midnight. I wouldn't say I ended up spent, but we had a good time. I've had worse New Year's Eves.