Valentine Schmalentine


I am fully aware Valentine’s Day is a contrived little fauxliday with no real purpose except to make those of us with partners feel pressured into forcibly purchasing false displays of love and adoration, and those of us without partners into purchasing large pitchers of Patron(forget the Margarita mix, it’s just that hard core). However, I have yet to meet a girlfriend/fiancee/wife who does not secretly, or otherwise, harbor a desire to be showered with something soft/slinky/shiny/sparkly on this, be it fake or not, holiday.

Having said that, I am not a beat around the bush kind of girl(shocking, I know). I have made it clear that I not only expect to be gifted but will fully relish in gift giving on this day. I will make heart shaped pancakes, homemade/lace-trimmed/hot-glue gunned Valentines, and I will(against the advice of my seasonal color-wheel) wear red. I will hand out boxes of candy, pay way too much for single use, rhinestone encrusted, heart themed t-shirts, and encourage those in my immediate family to do the same.

This year as Valentine’s Day approaches, I feel satisfied that I have hinted sufficiently to hubby my heartfelt desire for a large box of Godiva(I’m a chocolate snob, I see no shame in that) and something cozy to sleep in. Hubby is a lot of things; a great gift giver? Not so much. So I hint. I hint for him, I hint for me, I hint for the happiness and future of our(his) gift giving relationship. Hubby presented me with a beautifully prepared heart covered gift bag(points for it not being a creased and crinkled Christmas bag) and I settled in for the reveal. I tossed the tissue paper aside and discovered… Sweat Pants. Elastic waisted, one size too small sweat pants(as in they make me look like a boiled sausage about to split my casing), and a heart shaped box of fruit filled dark chocolate(which clearly violates my long standing no fruit in my dessert policy).

I’m going to avoid drawing parallels between our love and shapeless, comfortable, nondescript sweat pants and generic, bitter “chocolates”; and instead give him the benefit of the doubt. I’m going to edit the context of the gift and conclude that hubby wanted me to be comfortable(?) and healthy(?) not at all pissed and hungry. I’m going to assume he tried really hard to live up to the unreasonable expectations unfairly placed upon him by an impossible to achieve standard set by the nameless, faceless “establishment” of greeting card companies out to make a buck off his good intentions and honest efforts and hope he kept the receipt. I will go out today and feel joyous(damn it) as I purchase my own box of half-price Godiva. I will forget(no I won’t, who am I kidding) the sweat pant “incident” and remember the other 364 days a year hubby doesn’t liken our love to fleece.