“So what’s your goal tonight?” Bruce asks as he steers around a tractor trailer on the highway. We’re on our way to a “lifestyle” Halloween party, whatever that means.

“Goal? We’re going to a party. Why do I need a goal?”

He shrugs. “Most people make a plan for what they hope to accomplish. How many couples do you want to meet? Do you want to play? What kind of play? That kind of thing.”

I stare at him. “Have you ever met me?”

“Maybe once or twice.”

“I don’t want to have a goal. I’d rather go with the flow and do what feels right.” He starts to speak and I raise my hand to hold him off. “I know, I know. We have to talk. And establish boundaries. And all of that. But does everything have to be so ironclad?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want you to get caught up in the moment and do something you didn’t plan on. Or maybe you want to try something at the party that I’m not into.”

“Like what would that be?” I ask him.

“Now that is a good question and at the moment I don’t know if I have an answer, but you know I don’t like surprises.”

As he fixates on the road ahead, I catch a glimpse of mischief dance on his lips and he unleashes a wide, sly smile. “What if you want to watch me make out with some hot, red leather-clad rabbit? We would have to work together as a team to find that person.”

But here’s the thing, internet friends. “Getting caught up in the moment” is how I live my life. Having too many plans, goals, rules, whatever you want to call them, makes me cranky (See also: our disastrous trip to Disney, where every moment was regimented, and every plan failed to go, well, according to plan).

I recently had to take one of those personality tests for work, and my third highest “strength” was adaptability. Which means living in the moment, making decisions on the fly, trusting my gut, all that.

An excellent trait in my line of work. But one that drives Bruce batshit crazy. Especially when venturing into uncharted waters. So I do my best to make plans. And to abide by the rules we set. But I refuse to have a goal for a party. That just seems… icky.

“How ’bout we just go have fun. And if we meet a couple we want to get to know better…well, then we can talk again.”

He turns and cocks his head to the side like an oversized golden retriever, “You realize, having fun is a goal too.”

I roll my eyes at him, but that’s what we do.

Our costumes are a hit. We meet a few couples, including a sexy bunny.

One dude repeatedly and obnoxiously runs his hands along my midriff as he walks past until I politely call him on it.

Another dude lays it on thick with the flattery and I proceed to flirt blatantly, because hey, it’s fun.

And eventually I turn to Bruce and say, “I’d like to get out of here,” because there’s no one who makes me want to stay.

So we do. And we make our own fun in our nice, clean bed in a room that doesn’t already smell like sex and possibly cat pee.

If we had had a goal other than to have fun, that might’ve counted as a failure. But we didn’t. So it’s just a damn fun night. Go Team Us.

And in the next morning, Bruce said, “we have to make a plan for next weekend,” and I threw a pillow at him, well, that’s another story.