I’m one of those people, decried as an example of everything that’s wrong about the cynical world, that considers Valentine’s Day a complete load of bullshit.
Oh, I think it has its place — as a socialization exercise for school-age children — but as an adult holiday? An officially-sanctioned single day where you must demonstrate your affection for your loved one with appropriate gifts of a prescribed minimum-acceptable value? I put it right up there with the Christmas commercials that tell us that if I don’t buy her a car wrapped in a big red bow (or a diamond, or perhaps a diamond-studded car), I’m somehow failing in my duties as husband.
The wife knows this — which of course led to the best Valentine EVER, when I completely went against type and, despite what she knew about my opinion of the holiday, showed up with two dozen roses and a silver “Wonder Woman” ring.
Generally though? I don’t partake, and neither does the wife. We know that we love each other, and display it often, without sanction or official token from Hallmark.
But on this Valentine’s Day, after a particularly stressful weekend (followers on Twitter will be aware that I was admitted to the hospital overnight on Friday with chest pains — I’m OK, it was just a stress-releated anxiety attack, and my blood pressure, cholesterol, etc. are just fine), I wanted to make public declaration of just how lucky I am to have this woman in love with me:
I mean, seriously. Look at her. Now look at the picture of me, over there on the right (or the left, if you’re looking at this on Facebook. Or… well, nowhere, I guess, if you’re looking on Livejournal. Or RSS. Hmm. Never mind — this phrase got away from me a bit).
She’s with me. I know, I can’t believe it either. I’m either very, very lucky — or she’s seriously disturbed… which is still kinda cool, in a gothic-romance, madwoman in the crumbling estate kinda way.
So there you go. Valentine’s Day shmoopiness, completely against type. I love my wife.
Now get offa my lawn, ya dern kids! (*shakes cane*)