Here it comes…

I woke up this morning wondering just how many days has passed under the banner of February. Quite a few, I was certain. But fourteen? I hoped not.

The prospect of Valentines Day looms. That Girl assures me that for her That Day is not a perilous journey into the valley of despair in which man in certain of only one thing: It was not enough. It’s a holiday in which a guy could hire the Rolling Stones to play just for her in the corner of the four-star restaurant, and she would say, “I wanted the original drummer.” I don’t have any figures to back this up, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts that more couples break up on valentines day than any other day.

Once Jesse told me about a buddy of his that routinely broke up with his girlfriend before the day of horror, and reconnect after. I laughed at the time, but later I realized that the trauma of the disconnect-reconnect was miniscule compared to the failure on the big day.

Womenfolk out there, I can hear you now: “That’s not me.” Based on a fairly large sample, I regret to inform you that YES IT IS YOU. Ask yourself honestly, what would you say if your boyfriend/husband/other said, “Let’s not do valentines this year.” Wait, let me rephrase that. You would say “oh, that’s fine. I don’t like the whole obligatory show of affection anyway.” Then the day comes around and you discover to your horror that he meant it. “Not even a card? No flowers?” Valentines Day is a big, fat, hairy deal, and I hate it.

From a guy point of view, it’s a cynical chance to go nuts and hope to overcome all the little failures from the previous year. It’s like going to church only at Easter. Keeping the faith is an every-day thing. Observing the annual rites doesn’t make you a true believer.

Dudes, you want to be a good valentine? Give her love 368 days a year. That means love her every day, and go double (no big deal) on her birthday, valentines day, and one other day when she least suspects it. In fact, don’t hesitate to spontanify a few more of those special, unscheduled days. Those are the ones that will live forever in her heart. And screw those guys with their mass-market holidays. After a couple of years she’ll forgive your inferior valentines performance, and appreciate the other 364 days of the year.

Of course, this gives you the chance, around your 17th Valentines, to really blow her socks off. Oh, yeah, baby. Been setting it up all along.

6 thoughts on “Here it comes…

  1. For the record, That Girl is by all appearances not a victim of the Harlequary-chocodustrial complex. Yet another reason why she’s [insert positive lingo the kids are saying these days here]. However, since her birthday is the next day, I’m bummed about missing a 48-hour double-snuggling. There would be much frying of eggs, fizziling in the fat of hickory-smoked mega-mega bacon.

  2. My observation:

    The woman who is the most likely to fault a man for not presenting her on Valentine’s Day with the biggest box of chocolate he can find is usually the same woman who will ask that man time and again if that dress makes her ass look fat.

    To me, nothing says ‘I love you’ like the good old-fashioned traditional Valentine’s Day heart-shaped meatloaf. Think about it. Solid yet silly, nourishing yet whimsical, the everyday transformed into the memorable with a few simple pats and squishes. If that isn’t love then gosh darn it all I don’t know what is.

    (And if you really want to go all out, add a drop of food coloring to the mashed potatoes to tint them pink. It’s a beautiful thing.)

  3. There once was a gal from Nantucket
    who carried her thing in a bucket
    on Valentine’s Day
    She gave it away
    to man with a box of chocolate

    Candy is dandy
    but syrup is thicker

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