Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Date Night (Encore)

Episode Date: May 15, 2025

Originally aired May 27, 2024, Season 13, Episode 43 Our story tonight is called Date Night, and it is a story about a bike ride to a place where X marks the spot on a hand-drawn map. It’s also about lavender lemonade, minnows in the shallows, wagging tales, and a toast made while the dogs wind a leash around your ankle. Subscribe to our ⁠⁠⁠Premium channel.⁠⁠⁠ The first month is on us. 💙 BIOptimizers’ Sleep Breakthrough: ⁠⁠⁠Click here⁠⁠⁠ and use code NOTHINGMUCH for 10% off any order! Moonbird, the world’s first handheld breathing coach: ⁠Click here⁠ and save 20%! NMH merch, autographed books and more!⁠ ⁠Pay it forward subscription⁠ Listen to our daytime show ⁠Stories from the Village of Nothing Much⁠ on your favorite podcast app. ⁠Join us tomorrow morning for a meditation Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi friends, a quick note. You will notice that when you listen to older episodes, anything beyond the most recent eight, you will sometimes hear ads that aren't in my voice right after this message and before the show starts. This wasn't an easy decision. I care a lot about protecting the calm space we've built here. But making this change is necessary to keep nothing much happens happening. If you prefer to listen without ads, Premium Memberships are available and they're super affordable, about 10 cents a day. And they include the entire catalog, ad free. We have a link in the notes of this and every episode to help you subscribe. Thanks

for being here. I'm so grateful that we get to do this together. Hey, listener. I want to tell you about something that's changed my daily routine in the best possible way. You know those days when your gut just doesn't feel right? Maybe you're bloating or you have inconsistent digestion or just that sluggish feeling holds you back from really enjoying your day. I used to have those days a lot until I started using probiotic breakthrough by bioptimizers.

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You feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nicolai. I write and read all the stories you hear on Nothing Much Happens. Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim. We are bringing you an encore episode tonight, meaning that this story originally aired at some point in the past. It could have been recorded with different equipment in a different location. And since I'm a person, and not a computer, I sometimes sound just slightly different. But the stories are always soothing and family-friendly, and our wishes for you are always deep rest

and sweet dreams. This method works by giving your brain something to attach to. It becomes like an anchor. Your ship drops anchor, and instead of traveling all over the place, your mind is held in one soft relaxing place and you rest. All you need to do is listen.

I'll tell the story twice and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the night, don't hesitate to turn an episode right back on. With time, you'll wake less, and even when you do, you'll return to sleep within moments. Our story tonight is called Date Night, and it's a story about a bike ride to a place where X marks the spot on a hand-drawn map.

It's also about lavender lemonade, minnows in the shallows, wagging tails, and a toast made while the dogs wind a leash around your ankle. I was a full-time yoga teacher for over 20 years, and I know the power of intentional breathing. It's why our two deep breaths have been part of our bedtime routine since episode one, and that's why I want to introduce you to Moonbird. Moonbird is a handheld breathing device designed to comfortably fit in the palm of your hand.

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It's the perfect companion to your bedtime ritual or use it when you're meditating, when you're stuck in traffic, anytime you need an assist and feeling calm and focused. Listen, I know how to breathe to feel better, but still I use Moonbird because when my mind is racing or wandering, I need a little guidance

and it makes my deep breathing more effective. So when you wake in the middle of the night, don't reach for your phone unless it's to restart your bedtime story, that's fine. Reach for Moonbird. Visit moonbird.life slash nothing much happens to save 20%. We've got it linked in our show notes.

Now, it's time. Turn out your light. Set down your device. And get as comfortable as you can. Tuck yourself in with all the loving care little you needs tonight. Draw a deep breath in through the nose and sigh from your mouth.

Ah. One more, breathe in. And out. Good. Date night. Out in the garage, the bikes were almost ready. We'd pumped up the tires and made sure both of the trailers were properly coupled to our rear axles. At first, we debated on just going the two of us.

After all, it was meant to be a date night. But what can we say? Our dogs, Crum and Bertie, our sweet kitty marmalade, they are part of our love story. and we loved to be together. I didn't expect Marmalade to be a fan of riding in the bike trailer. I tried taking her out in a cat stroller once, and we'd only made it past a few houses before her yowling made it clear that this was not her cup of tea. But she kept sneaking out into the garage and climbing into the little mesh-sided wagon. And the third time I found her there, I cautiously zipped her in and opened the garage door. I walked the bike down the seat, seemingly at ease.

And when I got to the street and she still seemed content, I kicked one leg over the bike and pushed off. Slowly down a block, across another, she stared at the trees in the avenue, and when I stopped at a stop sign, I could actually hear her purring from behind me. Since then, a few times a week when I am tying on my sneakers, she'll approach on her silent orange paws and sit in front of me and blink expectantly when we take a ride together. As for the dogs, they were up for anything, especially Crum. He was little and brown, like a spunky, barking loaf of bread, and he got riled up when just about anything happened. If we were going for a walk, for a ride in the car, out into the backyard or up to bed,

he was just happy to be in on the fun. Bertie, a retired greyhound whose dating profile would say, must love naps and canceled plans, was less enthusiastic. He'd still wag his thin, whipped tail and lean his shoulder into your leg when you mentioned a ride, but he didn't usually get the zoomies about it. We were headed out to a spot we hadn't been to before, following a map that we'd been gifted at our wedding in September of the year before. The best man had drawn an X on the map, a spot near a lake where we could picnic and relax and watch the ripples on the water. He'd also gifted us these bikes, two beautiful cruisers, mine orange like marmalade, with a brown basket in tribute to Crum. His, gray, like Bertie. He'd attached one of the trailers when he'd delivered the gifts. None of us knew then what ride-or-die fanatics the animals would

become. But once we'd realized how much they enjoyed it, he'd ordered us a second one so we could all bike together. Marmee and Crum shared one of the trailers. They were about the same size, though her orange fluffy fur made her seem a bit bigger. They were snuggle bugs anyway, and always had their paws looped together, or a chin resting on the other's back. So they were happy to ride together. Bertie was so big, so long and lanky, with those thin stick legs that went for miles. His long back and knobbly knees, he rode better on his own, and we put an extra blanket in the cushion seat for him. Greyhounds can get cold easily, and he regularly wore sweaters,

even in the late spring. For them, we'd packed their travel water bowls and water, treats and toys. For us, we packed lemonade made with lavender syrup, little savory pastries from the bakery, which were filled with juicy sun-dried tomatoes and toasted pine nuts. Then we had some fruit, a little container of the first strawberries of the season, and pears from the corner store. There were crackers and hummus, some quick pickles and smoked almonds, and a big chocolate

bar to share. I'd heard the concept of a picky tea recently, and it had inspired me. It was a meal made of little bits and bites, some of it from leftovers in the back of the fridge, but perfect for a picnic. It took a minute to load the bikes, to get the pets in their harnesses, buckled into their trailers,

but the sun was still high in the afternoon sky when we set out. I had the map stretched across the top of my bike basket held in place with binder clips. And I directed us through the neighborhoods and downtown, then down a long dirt road. We went slow. The ride was half the point.

I always found that being on a bike made me smiley, giggly, and if we rolled down a gentle hill, I still thrilled at it like I had when I was ten years old. We followed a curve, and where I expected to find a dead end, the scenery instead opened up on a beautiful view, a lake that came right up to the road with pretty houses lining the far shore and a few picnic tables and benches, shady trees and soft grass to rest on. We turned our handlebars and slowed on the grass. Pulled the bikes up beside a table. You could smell the lake.

That good, sweet water scent. And we paused, still sitting astride the bikes with our toes on the ground, just sighing contentedly at the vista. Then Crumb sneezed, and we both laughed. Sometimes dogs sneeze for the same reason we do, but they also do it when they are playing or excited. I often noticed that Crumb sneezed when a wrestling match with Birdie or Marmee was starting to feel a little too serious. It broke the tension.

We got off our bikes and started to unzip the trailers. Marmee did not walk on a leash. No way. She was not that kind of cat. She might have let me carry her around in a basket, but the bikes were parked in the shade and she seemed happy to stay buckled in and listen to the birds. I gave her a few treats and balanced a water bowl beside her and re-zipped the flap after I snuck Crumb Birdie climbed out, taking long, slow down dogs and up dogs. We walked them up to the water, and I kept Crum close. He was a model of many breeds, and while I was pretty sure none of them were retriever, I didn't want to risk finding out I was wrong and having to wade in to fetch him back. Right in the shallows, beside the grassy edge, we peered down together and spotted tadpoles swimming awkwardly, tiny minnows drifting in schools. At the table, we unpacked our picky tea, poured the lemonade, and toasted each other. This love felt so natural to me from

the very beginning, like something that was obvious and inevitable and instantly comfortable. But still, when our eyes locked, when we held hands, when I heard his step on the stairs coming to bed at night, a tiny flutter of butterflies still bounded around inside me. Crumb tangled his leash around my ankle. Birdie let out a little hummy whine, begging for a bite of our meal. But still we held each other's gaze, smiled, and touched our glasses together.

Here's to us. Date Night Out in the garage, the bikes were almost ready. We pumped up the tires and made sure both of the trailers were properly coupled to our rear axles. At first, we debated on justie, our sweet kitty Marmalade, they are part of our love story, and we love to be together. I didn't expect Marmalade to be a fan of riding in the bike trailer. I tried taking her out in a cat stroller once, when we'd only made it past a few houses before her yowling made it clear that this was not her cup of tea.

But she kept sneaking out into the garage and climbing into the little mesh-sided wagon. And the third time I found her there, I cautiously zipped her in and opened the garage door. I walked the bike down the driveway, watching her face. bike down the driveway, watching her face. She lounged on the blanket I'd spread over the seat, seemingly at ease. And when I got to the street, and she still seemed content. I kicked one leg over the bike and pushed off. Slowly, down a block, across another, she stared at the trees in the avenue, and when I stopped at a stop sign, I could actually hear her purring from behind me. Since then, a few times a week, when I am tying on my sneakers,

week when I am tying on my sneakers, she'll approach on her silent orange paws and sit in front of me and blink expectantly. And we take a ride together. As for the dogs, they were up for anything, especially Crum. He was little and brown, like a spunky, barking loaf of bread, and he got riled up when just about anything happened. If we were going for a walk, for a ride in the car, out into the backyard or up to bed. He was just happy to be in on the fun. Bertie, a retired greyhound whose dating profile would say, must love naps and cancelled plans was less enthusiastic. But he would go with the flow. He'd still wag his thin whip-tail and lean his shoulder into your leg when you mentioned a ride. But he didn't usually get the zoomies about it. We were headed out to a spot we hadn't been to before, following a map that we'd been gifted at our wedding in September the year before.

The best man had drawn an X on a map, a spot near a lake where we could picnic and relax and watch the ripples on the water. He'd also gifted us these bikes, two beautiful cruisers, mine orange, like marmalade, with a brown basket in tribute to Crum, his gray like Bertie. He detached one of the trailers when he delivered the gifts. None of us knew then what ride-or-die fanatics the animals would become. But once we realized how much they enjoyed it, he ordered us a second one so we could all bike together.

Marmee and Crum shared one of the trailers. They were about the same size, though her fluffy orange fur made her seem a bit bigger. They were snuggle bugs, anyway, and always had their paws looped together, or a chin resting on the other's back, so they were happy to ride together. Bertie was so big, so long and lanky, with those thin, he rode better on his own. And we put an extra even in the late spring. For them, we'd packed their travel water bowls and water, treats and toys. For us we packed lemonade made with lavender syrup, little savory pastries from the bakery, which were filled with juicy sun-dried tomatoes and toasted pine nuts.

Then we had some fruit, a little container of the first strawberries of the season, and pears from the corner store. There were crackers and hummus, some quick pickles and smoked almonds, and a big chocolate bar to share. I'd heard the concept of a picky tea recently, and it had inspired me. It was a meal made of little bits and bites, some of it from leftovers in the back of the fridge, but perfect for a picnic. It took a minute to load the bikes, to get the pets in their harnesses,

buckled into their trailers. But the sun was still high in the afternoon sky when we set out. I had the map stretched across the top of my bike basket, held in place with binder clips. And I directed us through the neighborhoods and downtown, then down a long dirt road. We went slow. The ride was half the point. And I always found that being on a bike made me smiley, giggly.

And if we rolled down a gentle hill, I still thrilled at it, like I had when I was ten years old. We followed a curve, and where I expected to find a dead end, the scenery instead opened up on a beautiful view. A lake that came right up to the road with pretty houses lining the far shore and a few picnic tables and benches. and a few picnic tables and benches, shady trees and soft grass to rest on. We turned our handlebars and slowed on the grass,

pulled the bikes up beside a table. You could smell the lake, that good sweet water scent. And we paused, still sitting astride the bikes with our toes on the ground, just sighing contentedly at the vista. Then Crum sneezed and we both laughed. Sometimes dogs sneeze for the same reasons we do, but they also do it when they are playing or excited. I often noticed that crumb sneezed when a wrestling match with Birdie or Marm was starting to feel a little too serious. It broke the tension. We got off our bikes and started to unzip the trailers. Now Marmee did not walk on a leash. No way. She was not that kind of cat. She might have let me carry her around in a basket, but the bikes were parked in the shade, and she seemed happy to stay buckled in and listen to the birds. I gave her a few treats and balanced a water bowl beside her, and re-zipped the flap after I snuck Crum out. Birdie climbed out, taking long, slow down dogs and up dogs.

We walked them up to the water, and I kept Crum close. He was a model of many breeds, and while I was pretty sure none of them were retriever. I didn't want to risk finding out I was wrong and having to wade in to fetch him back out. Right in the shallows, beside the grassy edge, we peered down together and spotted tadpoles swimming awkwardly, tiny minnows drifting in schools. At the table, we unpacked our picky tea, poured the lemonade, and toasted each other. This love felt so natural to me from the very beginning, like something that was obvious and inevitable and instantly comfortable.

But still, when our eyes locked, when we held hands, When we held hands, when I heard his step on the stairs coming to bed at night, a tiny flutter of butterflies bounded around inside me. Crumb tangled his leash around my ankle. Birdie let out a hummy little whine, begging for a bite of our meal. And still we held each other's gaze, smiled, and touched our glasses together. Here's to us. Sweet dreams.