Since the moment I woke up today, I've been bombarded by messages of lovey-doveyness. On the Facebook, in the news, all over the paper. Proclamations of he-loves-me-this and she-loves-me-that and roses and balloons and candy and enough sweetness to exorcise the demons out of Regan MacNeil. Everywhere. In the State, there was a story of a husband who sends his wife flowers on the same day every month, and he's done this for more than a decade. Are you kidding me? On the Today Show, Hoda Kotb was bragging all about how her boyfriend had a concert violinist playing tear-jerking music just for her as she left for work at 5 in the morning. Barf. I mean, it's my parents' freaking anniversary for the love of God. Can it get anymore in your face than that?
Valentine's Day Schmalentine's Day is what I say. I mean, is it really necessary? All around the world...or wherever the hell it's celebrated...women, married or single, have these amazing ideas of grandeur about this day. They imagine what could happen... and if you're me, you imagine AMAZINGNESS. We dream about what our significant others will do to show us love and romance and appreciation. Will there be candy or flowers or sweet messages or lovely dinners or blingy jewelry? We dream. And I underscore dream. I can tell you this right now, some men know how to bring it, and they bring it every year. However, I would venture to guess that many fellas don't, and when they don't bring it right away... Well, those dreams turn into moments of anticipation. Moments of anticipation into hours of waiting, and with each passing hour, disappointment builds up like an freezing cold wall of icy bricks. Freezing cold.
It goes without saying that today hasn't been one for bringing it for everyone, and because I fail miserably at pretending, it ain't exactly been brought for me. Thanks to the honesty of some special best friends, I know that I'm not alone in wanting to throw up everytime I hear how incredibly sweet and thoughtful and forward-thinking and better some other person's person is. (So we're clear, my person is awesome, and I'm very lucky that he's mine, and I love him very much.)
So, here's to February 15th. I love it already because I know it won't be wrought with all of the Hallmarkable crap that this one is. Oh, February 15th, won't you be mine? May the thaw begin.
P.S. Happy anniversary to my Mom and Dad! 38 years ain't too shabby!
Valentine's Day Schmalentine's Day is what I say. I mean, is it really necessary? All around the world...or wherever the hell it's celebrated...women, married or single, have these amazing ideas of grandeur about this day. They imagine what could happen... and if you're me, you imagine AMAZINGNESS. We dream about what our significant others will do to show us love and romance and appreciation. Will there be candy or flowers or sweet messages or lovely dinners or blingy jewelry? We dream. And I underscore dream. I can tell you this right now, some men know how to bring it, and they bring it every year. However, I would venture to guess that many fellas don't, and when they don't bring it right away... Well, those dreams turn into moments of anticipation. Moments of anticipation into hours of waiting, and with each passing hour, disappointment builds up like an freezing cold wall of icy bricks. Freezing cold.
It goes without saying that today hasn't been one for bringing it for everyone, and because I fail miserably at pretending, it ain't exactly been brought for me. Thanks to the honesty of some special best friends, I know that I'm not alone in wanting to throw up everytime I hear how incredibly sweet and thoughtful and forward-thinking and better some other person's person is. (So we're clear, my person is awesome, and I'm very lucky that he's mine, and I love him very much.)
So, here's to February 15th. I love it already because I know it won't be wrought with all of the Hallmarkable crap that this one is. Oh, February 15th, won't you be mine? May the thaw begin.
P.S. Happy anniversary to my Mom and Dad! 38 years ain't too shabby!
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