Last Friday night in a lively Neustadt bar, Katrin and I sat alone at a table for four, nursing our designer cocktails. We almost certainly gave the cheerless impression of an unwanted couple – two people united by their common inability to be interesting, even remotely. What other reason could there be to explain a married couple of four years – FOUR YEARS – spending their precious little free time the way they spend the rest of their time: alone with each other?

It wasn’t long ago that things were different. Much different. In those earlier days, we practically had to hire agents to negotiate the best deals from the flood of offers stuffing our inboxes and clogging our answering machines every Friday, Saturday AND Sunday evening. So deep, so labyrinthine, so bafflingly complex was our social network that physicists could only map it out on supercomputers with fourth-dimension capabilities. No one could determine where the center and ends of this convoluted structure were, and it didn’t matter. All we knew was that the only way we would spend a weekend night at home was to be on our deathbeds.

And then, in the course of a year, the network, as if constructed of wet spaghetti, began to unravel. This once seemingly boundless sphere started shrinking. Contacts, acquaintences, friends all were disappearing from our radar like ships in the Bermuda Triangle, one by one.

Or rather, two by two.

I don’t remember who the first one was to decline my Friday-night invitation, but the conversation went something like this:

ME: Hey Tina, it’s Chris. How about 9:30 at New California?

TINA: Oh, gee Chris, I … we can’t tonight.

ME: Could you repeat that please? What time did you say?

TINA: No, uh, I’m not feeling well tonight.

ME: Are you sick?

TINA: No … well, not exactly.

ME: Oh, I’m sorry. What about Andreas?

TINA: He’s staying home tonight too, just in case.

ME: Well, whatever it is, I hope it’s gone soon.

TINA: Yeah. Thanks. Talk to you later.

That was the snowball that triggered the avalanche. Suddenly everyone was either not feeling well or taking medicine so they couldn’t drink. Katrin and I, sipping on daiquiris and martinis, soon found ourselves surrounded by couples drinking colas and fruit juices. If the women were on medication, the men were designated drivers or just wanted “to take a break from it”, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

The truth came out, ohhh, about three months later: Pregnant. First Tina and Andreas. Then Marta and Tom. Then Sylvia and Andi. Then….

I asked a passing waitress for the check. Two drinks. At least we’ve been spending less money lately. In the end, Katrin and I had a very nice conversation about where to put the toolbox that’s always getting in the way and what kind of plants we want on our balcony next spring. Sure we could talk about those sorts of things at home – no need to go to a bar for that. But hey, it’s our free time.

In some ways it’ll be a shame when it’s Katrin’s turn to be pregnant. It won’t be as much fun drinking at the bar every weekend without her.