Like I intimated last post, I’ve been in a bit of a funk.

Fall has this insipid way of creeping up on me, and I *still* haven’t written a single thank you note. I went on one fantastic bike ride from Northfield to Somers Point — only to spend the next day bedridden with pollen jammed in my sinuses. Ugh.

But the seasons are determined to turn whether I’m ready or not. Between Jewish holidays — Rosh Hashana followed quickly by Yom Kippur — I have tried to clean house, literally and metaphorically. There is something so therapeutic about mopping a floor, something so concretely satisfying. A friend of mine told me she mops her kitchen floor every night, and I thought, “Wow, I could do that.”

Doubtful, though.

I have been bustling around, though, trying to embrace fall. (You know, when it doesn’t knock me on my tush.) I uprooted herbs from my garden outside, repotted them and set them in my kitchen’s deep window. My kitchen smells like fresh basil and parsley. Delicious, but not enough to un-funk-ify.

On a recent Saturday night, Joel convinced me to go dancing with some friends at Boogie Nights. Have you been there yet? The one at Tropicana isn’t nearly as fun as the one at Resorts — it lacks the frenetic flair. There are TVs but not enough. There are impersonators but they kind of suck. Or maybe that was my mood. The disco ball was huge, but the dance floor felt cramped.

Boogie Nights is LOUD, too. Nothing made me feel older than that — not even the 75-year-olds dancing gingerly next to us. I had to leave the club periodically just to give my eardrums a rest. By the end of the night, we were sure that we were all yelling at each other even outside the club. How would we know? All of our ears were ringing.

But it was a good time nonetheless. I am always up for dancing — and, luckily, my dear husband knows that even if, say, I’m lying on the bed moaning about how I don’t want to wear pants. You know, hypothetically ;) For me, dancing is like medicine so Joel talked me into it.

It was weird, though, being at a club with my husband. We stepped onto this dance floor — this lit-up 1970s-inspired dance floor — and for a second I was very uncertain. Who was this person in front of me? It was strange and wonderful to know that I would be dancing with Joel all night — no one would cut it in. There was no mystery. We’re locked in.

We danced a while to songs like “Purple rain,” “Girls just want to have fun” and “Baby’s got back.” The tunes were familiar — we belted out a few. It was cool. Lots of people were there with their husbands/wives and it wasn’t the kind of crowd desperate to grind on each other (cough: mur.mur).

I suppose that’s a tradeoff: Comfort for adventure. I wasn’t going to meet anyone new — I was going to go in, dance with my friends, turn around and go home with Joel. No wandering, no gallivanting — something calmer. It worked.

There was no catharsis, no great story. There was, however, something else: Comfort. Knowing that Joel saw me on deep, dark, black day — a day when I didn’t even want to go dancing of all things — and he still wants to be married.

Sounds like a stupid accomplishment but it’s not. I just heard that a friend of a friend is getting divorced after six months. Six months. Kim Kardashian has had boyfriends for longer than that. You have to wonder what’s going on there — did that couple truly learn things about each other they didn’t know before? Are they seeing whole new levels of ugly they never imagined? Are they quitters?? Did Joel and I simply choose better?

Who knows? But I am so thankful that even in the rather meh days of fall, Joel wants to stick around.

NEXT WEEK: I cook a dinner party for six. Think curry, coconut-milk infused rice and gooey brownies.

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