Easy to Please

By Adrienne Garrison

I blame it on the chick flicks, because not only were there itineraries involved in the first year of dating my husband, there were outfits. 

Exhibit A: The summer picnic featuring a genuine wicker basket, Peach Snapple, and copious amounts of finger foods, looking breezy in my off-shoulder, periwinkle blue sweater and A-line linen skirt. How charming. How innocent.

Exhibit B: The sweltering Santana concert in late August, just before he left for college. The folks beside us said they had navigated back to their spot on the lawn using my silver sequined hair scarf, which offset a hot pink spaghetti strap top and white mini-skirt. Hell-o seventeen.

And Exhibit C: Where the boy had to make up for lost time by taking me on a Christmas-themed date downtown. Per my request, he had tracked down a peacoat and fedora to complement my champagne satin V-neck dress and genuine fur coat I’d dug out of storage from a middle school play for the occasion. While the symphony performed, a winter storm settled over the city, rendering the circular downtown utterly unrecognizable. We shuffled through two, then three, then four inches of snow (me, in my kitten heels), trying to figure out which parking garage he had parked the car in. We paused at one point to turn our disposable camera around and smile for a photograph, our two faces blurred by lamplight and shivering, both of our heads thoroughly dusted with snowflakes. It’s the only memento we have of that evening, and we look marvelously happy, even though I was outraged that he’d managed to lose the car. 

“Remember that time I brought you here on a date and lost the car?” Danny asked as we walked out of the parking garage and onto the street in that very same city, half a lifetime (yes, really) later. 

Downtown Indianapolis was bedazzled for the holidays, and we had one blessed night of grandparent help. Lines of Christmas lights stretched to the top of the monument in the city center, creating the same twenty-eight-story tree we’d kept circling back to that night of the snowstorm. 

“You were so, so mad at me,” he said, grinning. “I was terrified we’d never find it.” 

“It was the shoes,” I said, shaking my head at the memory. “They weren’t built for snow. Absolutely ruined.” 

Perhaps in a subconscious nod to the early-2000s fashion in which he’d first known me, I’d impulsively grabbed a green satin blouse off the rack at a local boutique the week before. That evening, I’d paired it with my signature mom-on-the-town look: high-waisted black jeans and black suede heels. (There was no snow in the forecast.)

I led us the few blocks to our favorite hotel, long past wishing I’d chosen a guy who could confidently navigate any surroundings. At least someone knows where she’s going. In the lobby, marble columns stretched floor to ceiling, and golden light filtered through a blown-glass chandelier. Relieved to be out of the cold, I exhaled deeply and slipped my hand into his. One hour away, my wonderful mother was wrangling three rowdy children into their pajamas for bedtime. Tonight, there were no rhyming board books on the itinerary, no nightlights to negotiate, and no arguments to settle. I was not exchanging weary looks with him as I passed by in my signature yoga pants, and he was not talking to me over his shoulder as he rolled up the sleeves of his favorite sweatshirt to start bathtime. 

Instead, we had enjoyed an early dinner at our favorite farm-to-table restaurant. There was plenty of evening ahead, but we had no agenda to fill with a holiday orchestra performance or otherwise complex plans. Not that evening. We had absolutely one thing on our minds. 

It turns out, I really don’t need much. 

“Let’s stop at the wine bar for a bottle to take up to the room,” he suggested, which seemed simple enough until we found ourselves standing in front of a half-dozen tasting stations featuring over 200 wines from around the world. I guided us over to the bar, where a tuxedoed gentleman with slicked-back hair set two glasses in front of us and looked us over. 

“What can I get for you this evening?” 

“We’d like to get a bottle of something to take back to the room,” Danny said. 

“A red,” I said, “Something smooth and—”

“Got just the thing for you,” he said and left without another word in a cloud of aftershave.

I shot Danny a look that said, He doesn’t know me and tilted my head to the side impatiently. Surely with that many wines to choose from he would need a few more specifics to find us the right one.

Upon his return, he flourished a nondescript bottle and poured two small tastings into each of our glasses. “This is one of our top blends out of California,” he said as I lifted the glass to my mouth. “It’s called Sexual Chocolate.”

Before I could even narrow my eyes, I was swallowing a mellow mouthful of the most perfect red wine I had ever tasted. I set my glass down and shrugged at my husband. 

“Guess you had us pegged,” Danny said, handing over his credit card. 

After the sommelier walked away, I asked Dan whether he was sure we didn’t want two bottles. “You know, one for home?” 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re easy to please.” 

In the hotel room, I poured a capful of bubble bath into the deep soaker tub. Eight years ago, returning to the Midwest for a series of job interviews, a recruiter had put us up in this hotel and its luxe vibe became something like a beacon of adulthood to me, a place we could step outside of all our obligations but still appreciate the beauty of the life we had created together. Settling into the bath, I recalled that initial visit, how my pregnant belly had risen out of the bubbles like a small island, stretching occasionally as my first child pushed her elbow or knee across the dome of my stomach. This year, we left her and her two little brothers behind for this moment to ourselves, and I wondered at how my life had unfolded in just eight short years, and even since our earliest misadventure in this city eighteen years before. Hundreds of date nights and long years of quiet togetherness connected me to those earlier, less certain and more complicated versions of myself. 

Danny set a glass of wine on the edge of the tub and kissed the top of my head, honoring the bliss of my rare moment alone, and I smiled at how completely predictable I’d become. How settled and (love of fancy hotels notwithstanding) simple my needs are in the easy company of this man. I hadn’t even had a single suggestion for his outfit. That girl in the snow would hardly recognize me now—wearing only a deeply contented smile and delighting in a symphony of quiet.  

But later, in bed, there is the same constellation of freckles between his shoulder blades, the same promise in his eyes. We’re being woven ever more tightly together in our oneness, and I’ve traded in those Hollywood scripts for a blend that is entirely ours: balanced, yet complex; vibrant, but smooth. The joy of knowing one another—becoming easy to please. 

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Adrienne Garrison

lives in Bloomington, Indiana with her husband and their two little ones. Her essays have appeared in Coffee + Crumbs and New Millennium Writings, and her short story “No Longer Mine” was recently featured in LETTERS Journal. Adrienne believes magic takes the form of heart-to-heart conversations, petit-fours, and walks in the woods. You can find more of her writing on her website and Substack.

Photo by

Jennifer Floyd

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