I have always found Valentine’s Day to be rather dreary, as a long standing non-Valentine holder. I generally make efforts to acknowledge my single girl friends and sometimes send cards or give flowers and stuff. But that was all just a ploy to stifle the pitiful little sorrows of my lonely heart.
Sniff. sniff. weep.
And this year, I am not single and I don’t live on Planet Suck, and I get to be with this wonderful person every day that I’m just so perpetually grateful to be around. I thought that having Valentine’s Day once I got to be in this place would be this perfectly romantic episode. But in the days leading up to it, I found that I wasn’t that excited. We already say that we love each other a bunch of times, every day. We always hold hands. We go out for nice dinners together. We snuggle on the couch. We linger in bed every chance that we can get. So cliched, but really, every day is Valentine’s Day.
I may have to either go have a sentimental sob to myself now, or heave a little.
It must be said, though: my sweet boy is great. I am amazed that I get to be with him, and that he wants to be with me. I love how he is so unfunny sometimes when he’s actually trying to be funny, and then just how funny he really is other times. I love that he’s astonishingly clever and knows all kinds of everything and if he doesn’t know, will do immediate research to find out. But he is always saying that I know everything, probably because I could say who Jennifer Aniston is dating at any given moment. I love that he is obsessed with working out and gets terrifically invested in his efforts, because it is impressive and inspiring, and he’s got a truly lovely body. I love that he falls asleep wrapped around me at night, even though it makes me swelteringly hot. I love that he will just decide what we should do or have for dinner. I love telling him how handsome he is and how perfect and just that I love him as much as I can.
margaret edith 