A Very Scary Valentine

Okay, so we just survived yet another Valentine's Day once again. In the past, I have spent the few weeks prior to this not-so-momentous day in a funk of epic proportions, grumbling about love and romance and resisting the urge to shoot arrows (and not the cute kind that cherubims are often depicted as carrying around to lob at big pink puffy hearts, but real live broadhead, deer killing arrows) at real hearts (the organs, not the symbol), but for some reason this year I didn't. 

This year I was almost nice. Maybe even radiated with happy. It was kind of disgusting. 

I have never, ever, EVER liked Valentine's Day. As a kid, it was merely another day to have a school party and eat more chocolate and junk, as evidenced by my prepubescent pictures in which I was a bit on the chunky side. I loved me some cupcakes back then. Oh, who am I kidding, I love me some cupcakes now. As evidenced by my adult pictures.

I guess I was a cynic early on. As a child it never excited me to spend Valentine's Day getting little slips of paper from kids who taunted me and called me names on the school bus and on the playground, yet their pre-printed messages of love insisted they'd "Choo-choo-choooooose me" and that they'd "Love me owl-ways." Sorry, buddy. I ain't buyin' what you're sellin'. Your momma made you write that out and I know that to be the truth because I was forced by my momma to write one out to you, too, big guy. As I got older and infinitely more boy crazy, yet still painfully dorky, I only ended up with my hopes dashed catastrophically every stinkin' year. I had a propensity to crush on guys so far out of my league there was no realistic hope, even though my heart told me we would overcome all odds. It didn't matter to my silly 13-year-old heart that it would have been highly illegal for my 7th grade math teacher, Mr. Spencer, to leave his young wife, steal me away in the middle of the night so we could run away together and be magically, mystically in love and probably even French kiss. I just got my hopes dashed when he didn't steal me away -- and gave me a C on the test we'd taken just days before.

As a 16 year old, having a boyfriend was going to for sure make things better, I just knew it. Having a solid, steady boyfriend to regularly hold hands with and kiss and whisper mushy, gushy things in my ear, write me notes, spend hours and hours with on the phone and write our names together over and over on every piece of paper I came in contact with was going to make Valentine's Day a total turnaround for me. The groundwork was laid already. He knew my likes, dislikes, phobias and dreams. He knew what my ideal Valentine's Day would be (well, minus the statutory rape charges involved in that 7th grade math teacher fantasy) and he was surely going to deliver. I was a bit on the emo side back then, wearing lots of black and writing dark poetry even on my happiest of days. I didn't want anything traditional. I wanted weird and odd and possibly a little macabre. I envisioned black roses and maybe a new black eyeliner pencil.

He gave me a box of chocolates. And a red rose.

I hate roses. And boxed chocolates were offensive to my desire to buck the norm. The embodied everything I abhorred about romance and love and ugh...Valentine's Day.

I cried that year, too. Probably harder than I had in any previous year.

From then on I loudly and defiantly declared that soul mates didn't exist, true love was a fantasy and romance was a farce. Oh, we didn't break up and I still really liked him -- I just hardened myself to any more heart ache via a trumped-up commercialized "holiday" that was no more a holiday than I was a bikini model.

And then I got married. Our first Valentine's Day we were broke. As in, we had no money. We were madly in love, young and stupid, only recently employed after an unexpected lay-off and very new to the whole marriage thing. We had been married all of 45 days on our first Valentine's Day. That morning I woke him up as usual at 4am, fixed his lunch, kissed his adorable little face and sent him on his way. I spent the day cleaning house and doing laundry and basking in the glow of our new love. I knew that there would be no flowers or chocolates or jewelry and I was okay with that. I set about making as romantic a dinner as I could with a pound of ground beef, commodity cheese and a loaf of Wonder bought off the bargain rack at the bread store. 

He hopped out of his truck that evening, lunch bucket in hand, a smile on his face. He must've really missed me! I opened the back door for him and he kissed me like he meant it. Then he said, "Here, baby. I got you something!" as he fumbled around with his lunch bucket. He excitedly pulled out a jewelry box and I immediately began with the protests. "But we don't have any money!" I exclaimed and he said, "You're right! We really don't -- I spent my whole check on this for you because I want you to be my Valentine." He was barely 30 years old, looked barely 20, and he was so excited for me to open that little felted box. Standing there in the entryway of our living room, I opened up the most beautiful heart necklace ever made. I immediately began bawling like a baby.

The tears were partially because he had just announced that he had spent every penny of our money for that week on a necklace for me and I had no idea how we were going to pay the bills due that week. But the tears were mainly because he had done that for me. Me! The one he loved. The one he had abandoned a life of confirmed bachelor-hood for. The one he had given up Crest toothpaste for when I told him I would never brush my teeth with that nasty blue stuff and would only use Colgate. The one he stayed up late playing Super Mario Brothers with until 4am on more than one occasion even though the game made him cuss and throw the controller. The one he had said "I do" to a month and a half before.

I still have that necklace and the girls wear it every now and then on special occasions. I'm not much of a necklace wearer these days. I got out of the habit when our little family of two began growing to three, then four, then -- surprise! -- five. I got tired of being choked by curious little fingers wrapped in gold chain. Since that first Valentine's Day back in 1993 he has given me a  few more pieces of jewelry, three amazing kids and a few minivans. He bought me a house, has become a better husband (I'd like to think I'm a better wife), an incredible daddy and a true man of God. He puts up with my moodiness, my obsessive-compulsive need to alphabetize the canned goods in our pantry, he taught me how to make gravy (because my first attempts were pretty bad) and lets me put my cold feet on his legs even though it makes him jump at first. We've weathered great loss, experienced great joy, found our version of comfortable romance, passion and enduring love, nearly called it quits and found our way back.

This year, as in many many years past, there weren't any mushy gushy cards or boxes of chocolates exchanged at Diva Ranch. I made a pan of Slutty Brownies, we kind of snacked around for dinner and spent the evening huddled on the couch watching recorded episodes of "American Horror Story." We don't get too excited over this not-holiday around our place and I don't see that changing. We'll forego a romantic comedy any day for a good old fashioned ghost story. Because that's just how we are. We aren't fancy and we like it like that. While Abby and Sam each have a “love interest” (and Abby's gainfully employed boyfriend gave her some mushy gushy roses and a giant stuffed dog I'm pretty sure we'll have to claim on our taxes next year because it's as tall as a preschooler and she takes it everywhere with her), we're trying really hard to keep our kids from buying into ridiculous notions of store-bought romance by just being together, doing what we like and scaring the poop out of ourselves while eating some of the most amazing brownies on the planet.  

Some may call that boring. Some may call us jaded. Some may call it weird.

We just call it love.