I think I may have a genetic trait that appears on days like
today (it’s February 14, in case you didn’t know). Call it the cynical gene,
call it the disbelief gene, call it what you will. I like to call it my rebel
gene (because if you knew me, you’d know how funny that was). I don’t get
excited about Valentine’s Day. My husband and I (I think he may have the same
gene) don’t celebrate. There’s nothing wrong with a day to celebrate love, but
we don’t like to be told that today is the day, especially when commercials and
ads bombard you with messages about the importance of the day.
I was in a store last week and ran into a friend who was
buying Valentine’s Day presents for her kids. Really? Don’t get me wrong. I
totally spoiled my kids (and still spoil the kid at home), but not in the name
of a non-holiday. I have the same reaction to my anniversary, my birthday, St
Patrick’s Day, Cinco de Mayo, the Superbowl, and Halloween. I think I may just
feel that these “holidays” have spiraled out of control with bigger and bigger
expectations each year. Oh, we give each other presents on birthdays, but if we
can’t do it on the day itself, that’s no big deal. And for our anniversary this
year we decided to get a bed (not the mattress; we have one of those; I mean a
piece of furniture that holds the mattress; I’ve never had one), but we still
haven’t bought it. The last anniversary we decided to get a bed (clearly not a
new idea), we spent two days shopping, and then decided it would be more fun to
take the family to Hawaii instead.
It could be that I’ve trained myself not to expect anything.
After all, I married a man who can’t understand the appeal of buying metal with
rocks in it that has no express purpose (jewelry, for you non-engineering
types). In the dark ages before the Internet really existed, he gave me a modem
for a present. I had no idea what it was. Turns out, he was right about its
importance.
Now there’s nothing wrong with celebrating family,
milestones, events, etc., but to me celebrations mean more when they are not
prescribed by the day. When I’ve had a bad day and my husband bring home a
bunch of flowers just because, that’s romantic. When he calls up and offers to
pick up dinner, that’s romantic. When I ask for help and he drops everything to
do what I’ve requested, that’s romantic. When he takes the dogs to the dog park
because the last time I went some idiot hit my dog and yelled at me because
she’s high energy, vocal (she barks when she’s exuberant—you should see her talking
to me while I’m in the kitchen), big, but so sweet and has never hurt anyone or
any dog, that’s romantic. When he got down on the floor and played with our
children when they were little, and even now takes our developmentally delayed
daughter to basketball games and takes the time to play video games with her,
that’s romantic. And when we still plan our future and what we want to do
together despite having been married for 27 years, that’s romantic. And when we
laugh together, and discuss politics together, and watch movies together,
that’s romantic.
So go ahead and celebrate Valentine’s Day. There’s nothing
wrong with it. I’ll do nothing special today except what we do every day. And I
will love every minute of it, even the bad ones.
But I still expect special treatment on Mother’s Day. Oh,
yeah. Nobody gets out of that one.
--Gabi
P.S. I have a giveaway running here until Feb 19. See the
following
blog entry.
Books I’m reading now
A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness
