Let’s chew the fat for a moment on this supposed holiest of romantic holidays, St. Valentine’s Day. Although the holiday was axed from the Pope’s official calendar way before I made my entrance on this planet and I read — courtesy of Wikipedia mind you, with no ‘heavy’ research being claimed on my part — the holiday’s link to romantic love versus the honoring of a saint, debuted back in the day when fiefs were traded for wives. In this, my 34th year of life — I realized Feb. 14 is still a way bigger deal than I thought.
I am an outsider. I will never understand flowers as a romantic gesture, merely because lifelong allergies to all things pollen force me to equate salvia and snap dragons with sneezing, sniffling and Sudafed. I made paper pinwheels in lieu of flower arrangements for my wedding — of which I am sure you’re aware if you are close enough to be tuned into this blog. I wasn’t going to put a damper on the festivities with fits of achoo. A girl in a pretty dress with itchy, red eyes doesn’t look so good in those pictures you are supposed to cherish till the end of time, no matter how handsome the groom. What else says Cupid? Don’t forget the chocolates. While good in moderation, chocolate goes straight to my head, in the form of migraine.
Bringing us back to the reason for this post, I’d like to recount my day to you. To help out a friend, I spent Valentine’s Day 2012 driving all over God’s creation delivering flowers. Achoo. Tripling my antihistamine dosage for the day allowed me eight hours of “tolerable” car time with my least-favorite passengers, a prearranged plethora of petals and pollen — no doubt for puffed up profits on the part of the petal pusher.
I refuse to apologize for the perfect ‘p’ percussion present in the previous passage.
I learned, or rather reinforced my fear. I am an apparent anomaly compared to adults of my gender. Women love flowers and lots of them. When the flowers are accompanied by a toy bear or Mylar balloon, women go gaga. Add chocolate, look out. I feel left out. There is something wrong with me. My excitement on this show of societal sentiment has always stemmed on what I can make out of the box the candy came in and in looking up the genus and species of the plants the roses were paired with. Go ahead and say it. Dork. Freak.
I don’t mean to pooh-pooh passion. When the day’s delivery duties dwindled I returned home and took the time to produce a self-portrait in pen on Post-it, paired with two petrified conversation hearts — found in a drawer and at least a decade old — professing to my partner, “ur mine” and reminding him he’s “my boy.” My note to Jim included my own “I love you” and “please don’t eat these.” I am happy he doesn’t need Feb. 14 to affirm the prior.
Pleased to be home after spending the bulk of the day on the road , I promptly proceeded to the potty. Noting the irony of the heart-shaped pattern adorning our double-ply paper, I couldn’t help but smile, giggle, wipe and flush.
