Okay, so it’s a little late to write about Valentine’s Day. It took me a week to shake off the sugar coma. I literally just put down a box of chocolates in order to pick up a pen. Or laptop, whatev. Some people are more creative on marijuana; my drug of choice is the choc. (Some people utilize both of nature’s gifts, hence “special brownies”, which I have never tried by the way except maybe twice.) It’s the glucose working its brain-boosting magic. But it’s short-lived, of course. The sugar rush wears off and I return to my dark place that I wish was made of cocoa but nope – it’s just darkness.
V-Day. Who came up with this day that, abbreviated, sounds more like a disease you contracted in college? Hallshey, that’s who. (Hallmark + Hershey = the Valentine’s Day conspiracy.) Seriously, it’s an excuse to fatten our asses – and the wallets of those freakin’ magicians at Lindt. It’s a time to buy insanely overpriced greeting cards, 90% of which say what you could have easily said yourself for zero dollars and 18 seconds of actual self-induced thought. Why not put $5 in an envelope with a handwritten note that says “I almost spent this $5 on a stupid card but I thought it’d be better off in your pocket next to your cute little crotch.” There ya go – next year’s card for your spouse, done. Valentine’s Day is rationale to buy new earrings and pretend your husband bought them even though he secretly thinks you’re a total imbecile for buying yet another frivolous item that could have paid for six months of the NHL network and 12 wobbly pops to boot.
Or maybe this is just the voice of a woman whose husband is not exactly the romantic type anymore. Sure, he has his moments, but beyond the occasional loving squeeze, chivalry is dead. Okay, I won’t be that drastic; it’s on life support. And no, honey, slapping my ass does not constitute romance. How about I slap your ass while you’re washing the dishes while simultaneously polishing your Vicki shrine and desperately seeking a medical breakthrough that enables men to give birth?
But alas, I am not the same spontaneous tart I once was either. Responsibility has sucked the fun out of me, I guess. If only stress was a turn-on; that’d be deadly…
“Honey, the property tax is due. $950. Yay. Whip out the checkbook – and those sexy satin pajamas I like. I’m gonna dip my pen in your inkwell.”
“Babe, Max is crying again. I just adore the sound of his frantic wailing, don’t you? Let’s make out.”
“I gotta work again this weekend, honey. Bow chicka wow wow. I get so randy when I’m overworked. It’s like the exhaustion actually makes me love you more!”
I may not be quite the free spirit I once was, but hey, I’ll always be crazy. Crazy is fun, right?
“You’re mad, bonkers… but I’ll tell you a secret – all the best people are.” The Mad Hatter… holla!
Relationships change and evolve; it’s just the way the cookie crumbles. (Mmm, cookies.) Because people change and evolve, and so we should. This is why, in my humble opinion, it’s wise to wait to get married until you’re 30-ish; we are constantly changing, especially during our 20s when we are trying to find out who we are and what the hell we’re doing here. We are still changing now, in our 30s, 40s, 50s, etc.
But I guess as long as the essence of who we are stays the same, then we love the one we’re with and support each other through the constant evolution of life. Lord knows it’s not easy; a good, honest, reliable, kind and entertaining copilot is a necessity and a blessing if you should be lucky enough to find such a creature. Through thick and thin, boredom and challenge, sickness and health (including the dreaded chocolate overdose), we keep the love alive in all its glorious imperfection.
So I dedicate this post to my man-thing. But I apologize, this next part is recycled. This is a poem I wrote and recited at our wedding. Yes, I really did. All class, baby. Love it or leave it.
For being happy to see me after a short time apart.
For sharing things with me, like your dreams, and your farts.
For calling me at 4am in an inebriated state.
For boldly trying to tongue me on our first freakin’ date.
For telling me you love me though I already know.
For nagging me incessantly when I’m being too slow.
For holding my hand firmly whenever we walk.
For always looking cute, like a furry beanstalk.
For embracing my weirdness instead of running for the hills.
For being right smart with your scientific skills.
For your great sense of humor and getting all my jokes.
For knowing the Heimlich maneuver. You know, in case I choke.
For never taking for granted the woman that you’ve got.
Or the lunatic I tend to be more often than not.
For being a man of outward affection.
For being tall and trim, like a human erection.
For calling me piggy every day of the week
and expressing your love with an occasional reeeeek!
For, in spite of your white boy rhythm, loving to dance and sing.
For making sleeping in a wonderful thing.
For taking me out for fancy meals, like Ches’s.
For preferring me in sweats instead of girly dresses.
For telling me to relax just to get a rise out of me.
For farts so high-pitched, they always surprise me.
For your scruffy unshaved face that gives me a rash.
For supporting me with your spirit instead of mere cash.
For being a loyal friend. For loving our dog.
For being a big fat remote control hog.
For having the cutest little muffin-like bum.
For forgetting every damn thing under the sun.
For unhooking my bra every chance you get.
For doing chores willingly, with only a scatter death threat.
For your great enthusiasm and lust for life.
For having all the makings of a good little wife.
For being a worthy opponent in a battle of wit.
For being somebody I wouldn’t change a bit.
For hanging the tree lights with anal perfection.
For sharing with me your wicked beer bottle collection.
For appreciating the sarcasm of the previous line.
For being the perfect other half in this two-of-a-kind.
For giving me things that simply can’t be bought.
These are the reasons I love you. Hey, how could I not?