Loving my way, not Cupid's Way

Hello.  My name is Marion.  And I hate Valentine's Day.

Yep, I really do.  Always have.  Valentine's Day has never been about roses and chocolate for me.  In the past, it was usually heartbreak or anger.  Since my marriage, it started out with high expectations, hurt feelings, anger and resignation.

But since those young, idealistic and dumb days, I have come to realize that the concept of Valentine's Day is one of setting us up for failure.

For instance, this year, Valentine's Day falls on a Monday.  Let's think about this for a minute.  Mondays.  The start of the work week.  We're depressed at having to give up our weekend, we have a buttload of stuff to catch up on.  And in between, our guys are supposed to remember us with a smile and remember to actually order flowers.  Now, ideally, they should have remembered to do that last week.  But a man's brain is not wired to think ahead.  It's really not.  They think in the moment. And what that means is that on Monday, they're having to scramble to figure out which restaurant their significant other loves, trying to make reservations at the last minute for a romantic dinner, when they really just want to go home to a tv dinner.  Then, it's off to the store.  Thinking that he'll be the only ones in there trying to get a last minute card, he walks into Wally World and is met by about three hundred of his kind, also looking for that perfect card that they forgot to buy.

After his fight to dismemberment for a suitable card that he hasn't even read, he gives up on going to the florist, and races to the floral department.  Ah!  In the tub sits one more bouquet of roses.  Who cares that they're limp and about to die?  They're roses aren't they?  So, now with his mission accomplished, he runs to the nearest register to stand inline with other panicked men, trying to get back to work before lunch is over.  Yep, this is the beginning of a wonderful, romantic evening.

I have to admit that I've gone to Wally World before on Valentine's Day, just to watch these poor suckers.  It's always easy to tell the newlyweds from the old pros.  The newlyweds run around in a panic, spending time reading all those greeting cards until they find the perfect one.  You'll see their lips move as they read, trying to make sense out of all that corny romance.  Then, they leave, to race to the florist, because only the best flowers will do for their lovely, young bride.  Little do they know that all the florists are already sold out and they'll be back here, in a panic, to find what's left.  I can see what's running through their mind..."man, if I don't get this perfect, I am so screwed!"

The old pros are a little calmer.  They've been through this many times and have the routine down pat.  First, walk to the card section; take a quick glance and grab the biggest, fanciest card you see.  A quick detour to the floral section to grab a bouquet.  Doesn't have to be roses - the pro knows the answers: "sweetheart,I wanted to get you something different than what everyone else gets, so I got you these wonderful daisies instead."  Next, walk to the register and grab a box of chocolates on the way.  All set.  Duty is done.

Yeah, Right!

So, let's get to the wives.  It's Monday.  We're supposed to to fit into the same dress we wore last year to dinner.  That's stress all in itself.  And I am not even going to start on that stupid uncomfortable lingerie that the Marquis De Sade invented to pay us back for some imagined slight.  We have to make sure that we were able to actually find a babysitter.  Try finding a teenage girl to babysit on Valentine's Day. Those that don't have plans, well, are you sure you want them to watch your precious offspring?  It's off to work.  Dealing with  the e-mails, voicemails and all the problems that seem to have popped up overnight.  Listening to the door and the squeals of happiness from the young newlyweds who had prefect red roses delivered to them at work.  The day has been crappy; now it's time to race to daycare, pick up the kids, race home, feed them, try to give yourself a quick spongebath, hope that you remembered to iron your dress, fix your makeup, stop the rug rats from spraying your once-a-year perfume onto the dog.  Ok, husband is home, wanting to know why you're not ready to go.  Strangling seems too humane, but you smile sweetly and let the babysitter in.

As you leave for dinner, you look wistfully at your old sweats and couch.  You stiffen your resolve.  By gosh, you WILL have a romantic dinner.

Yep, sounds like fun.  Romance to me would be coming home to dinner, to washed dishes and clean laundry.  Maybe takeout, 'cause I can eat that in my jammies and then sit down and watch the news.  Romance is a clean house and thoughtful gestures, not fattening food, fighting for space in a restaurant and having to put on a too-tight dress.  Romance is coming home to the same person after 20 years of marriage and still smiling.  It's not about a greeting card that has sweet words on it that you would never say in your life.  Forget the sweet sentiments.  Tell me that you'll do the grocery shopping this week.  True love is not about fake romance on a specified day.  It's about longevity and still liking your partner after 20 years.  It's about living through the clothes left on the floor, the trash not getting taken out, being sick together, 20 years of  really living together. After the arguments, after seeing the worst of your partner and still loving them, then you have true love.  Before that, you don't have the right to talk about it.




Besides, would you trust some fat little dude with a bow and arrow to choose your mate?