“Let’s go to the roof and see the moon!” my husband called as he entered our condo.
I was lying snug under the covers, reading one of my many soon-to-be-due library books.
It was 9 p.m.
On a Sunday.
And did I mention the library books?
“I already went downstairs to see it!” I had been unaware of the super moon, but luckily my mom and mother-in-law had both texted me about it. My husband was teaching that evening, so I figured he would see it on his walk home. An hour earlier, already lounging in my pajamas, I had pulled on my semi-decent clothes and walked downstairs and outside to see it after a failed attempt to spot it from our balcony.
“I saw it too, but we should go see it together on the roof! How often does this happen?”
My mom had told me it wouldn’t happen again for another hundred years. It wasn’t until the next day that I read that there will be another one in 2033. Either way, that’s still quite a ways from now. I tried to dredge up some moon-viewing team spirit.
“You’re right! Let’s go.” I threw on sweatpants and a sweatshirt over my pajamas — again. I couldn’t find my moon-themed pompoms, so these would have to do. “I can’t believe I’m leaving bed after my bedtime!”
“It’s an adventure,” my husband said. My idea of an adventure is frequenting the storage locker on Friday night. This seemed just plain risky; more on par with bungee jumping.
On the way to the roof, we saw our upstairs neighbors with their camera and tripod.
“Can you see it from up there?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! It’s amazing!” our neighbor said. “There are a bunch of people up there!”
Oh no. I wasn’t exactly dressed for a party, nor did I plan on doing more than looking at the moon with my husband.
I imagined strapping on my safety harness as the elevator doors opened and we walked out onto the roof. It looked as if we’d be taking a social bungee jumping plunge tonight after all.
“Hey, guys!” a female voice exclaimed. There were about 25 people laughing and talking in the dark. I smiled in an attempt to acknowledged whoever had greeted us.
I looked at my husband, whose eyes were wide. “Who are all these people?” A few were saying goodbye and leaving; they must have been guests of residents. People were toasting with beers and taking selfies with the moon (I can’t imagine those turned out well?).
“I wonder which apartment my coworker lives in?” I was temporarily distracted from the large orange moon by the fact that my colleague had moved in across the street and I could probably spot her apartment from the roof. “Should I ask her which balcony is hers so we can wave?”
“No,” said my husband, the voice of reason. “That’s weird.” He’s probably right. She might think it’s odd if I ask her to hang a red handkerchief on her balcony so that I can figure out which window is hers. I’ve delayed asking her, though I’m sure curiosity will push me to inquire eventually.
“The moon is really pretty,” I said enthusiastically.
“How long does the eclipse take?” my husband asked.
“A couple hours, I think?” I hadn’t actually looked any of this up, so the text synopsis my mother had sent me was proving surprisingly handy. “It looks like it’s almost done.”
A few minutes later, the moon looked pretty much the same. “OK,” my husband said, “we can go.”
We walked back inside, and I sighed in relief. We had survived the Sunday Night Late Night Moon Roof Party.
“There were so many people!” My husband hit the button for the elevator.
“Don’t they have to work tomorrow?” I asked. “Do they always have parties on Sunday nights?”
Maybe we were missing out with our 9 p.m. bedtime. We were intrigued.
But not that intrigued. It was time to get back to our condo and brush our teeth.
Just as the we were boarding the elevator, we heard a voice behind us. A neighbor whom we had never met got on. “So, what did you think?” she asked.
I couldn’t remove my social safety harness just quite yet. Time for a little small talk before I would make it back to my bed, but that’s what I get for not taking the stairs.
I was back under the covers and reading my book by 9:30. “That was fun,” I told my husband. “I’m glad we went up to the roof.”
“See?” he said. “It’s OK to break your bedtime rule once in awhile.”
I agree. It is OK … once in a super moon.
Carissa Jean Tobin lives in a condo in Northeast Minneapolis with her husband. Her hobbies include creating humorous surveys for friends, lounging at the Wilde Roast Café, and scanning old papers in an effort to minimize. She teaches first grade in North Minneapolis.