This is it.
THE day to celebrate romance. It’s very important to keep in mind that you’ve completely failed at love if you don’t pull off Valentines’ Day in stellar fashion.
Oh, the pressure.
I believe I’ve already confessed that Greg and I don’t really “do” Valentines’ Day. I’d look up last week’s post to make sure I actually confessed that, but my laziness hit a new low this afternoon. I can’t manage all the clicking that will take.
The problem with Valentines’ Day is that it’s in February.
And the problem with February is that it’s trying to kill me.
Or maybe February’s just set to deliver the killing blow after, oh, say, October through January have worn me down.
At the moment, I find it ironic that I always gratefully look forward to the Fall as the time we’ll “slow down after Summer.” Am I lying to myself? Oh yes. Yes, I am. Every Fall. And I plan to do it again next year.
October, November, December and January take it in turns to stick me, the Bull in a grand Spanish bull-fighting ring, with lance thrusts of busyness. I bleed a little, and they wave their garish capes in my face. They wait for the cumulative blood loss to bring me to my knees. They’re not very nice.
Let’s ignore the fact that, in this scenario, the Bull wrote the schedule and invited October through January into her ring to spar.
Yes, this Bull is a girl. Now’s not really a good time to be correcting the Bull about petty things like gender identification. She’s clearly having a victim moment and intends to wallow.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Come February, the Bull is tired. Oh, she’ll keep fighting. But she’s tired. She just hopes she doesn’t use her remaining strength to leap into the stands and trample innocent bystanders.
Clearly, I’m delirious and shouldn’t be allowed to blog right now.
I should probably note that I’m sick, and I’m coming off of my second straight weekend away from home. One for work reasons, one for kid reasons. Those are easy and available excuses for this rambling.
What were we talking about?
Oh, yeah. Not doing Valentines’ Day. February’s trying to kill me. And something creepy about parenting and bull-fighting.
I got home last night and broached the subject of Valentines’ Day plans with Greg. Nothing like the night before for planning.
Here’s how it went:
Me: I feel sick. Did you get me a Valentines’ Day card?
Communication has always been our strong suit.
Me: Sorry. Two separate things. 1) I feel sick. 2) Did you get me a Valentines’ card?
Greg: Sorry you’re sick. And yes.
Greg: Is that aimed at being sick or at the card thing?
Me: It’s the night before Valentines’ Day, and I don’t have anything for you! I feel sick. I’m not sure I’m up for rushing around town to find you a card tomorrow. Can you just hold your card for next year? Don’t give me a card, and then I don’t have to give you a card? Pretty please? We’re supposed to have dessert!
Greg, speaking slowly, as if to a skittish horse: Ummm… I don’t have to give you a card if that’s the right answer. And am I supposed to be following the dessert thing? Does that have to do with being sick, wanting some dessert right now, or having dessert on Valentines’ Day?
Me: Dessert’s our big plan. We’re putting the kids to bed on Valentines’ Day, and we’re eating dessert. Cupcakes! We’re eating cupcakes!
I said that last part in the same tone I’d say, “Jump, man! Your house is on fire, and you’re going to be burned alive if you don’t jump now!”
Greg grew up in a house where no one was loud. Sixteen years of marriage, and he’s still adjusting to the crazy lady he lives with who grabs him by the shoulders and cries, “We’re eating cupcakes!” with the urgency of a Code Blue at the hospital. Crash cart! I need a crash cart of cupcakes, STAT!
In case you’ve ever wondered, I blog because it makes me look so attractive.
So here’s our Valentines’ Day, revealed:
I’ve been home sick all day.
My yummy Valentines meal is buttered toast.
We’re not exchanging cards. (Thank you, Greg.)
Greg stopped on his way home from work to buy me dessert, which I probably can’t eat.
We have a short window after our little kids are asleep in bed and before our oldest gets home from babysitting her cousins. I’m going to put out in classic Sick Wife fashion by sitting on the couch next to my husband and holding his hand. That’s right. He’s gettin’ some crazy hand-holding tonight.
Then, right before we drift off to sleep tonight, we’ll mumble in slurred-sleep and muffled-pillow voice, “Luffyou” and “Luffyoutoo.” Just like we do every night.
I’ll tell you what. That’s a perfectly fine Valentines’ Day in our house.