I have had the same Valentine for 27 years.
Or 26 years. I can be fuzzy with dates. Regardless.
As we approach Valentine’s Day, I think about my good fortune. My Valentine is the love of my life, my soul mate, my best friend, my partner in parenting, and my husband.
My husband is no fan of Valentine’s Day, to put it mildly. He loathes everything about it. He is not a monster or even a meanie. It is simply not his thing.
Every year for the first four or five years we were together, my sweetheart brought me two dozen long-stemmed red roses and a card for Valentine’s Day. He made dinner reservations at my favorite restaurant. See, not even close to a meanie.
I am the villain in this tale. As we approached our fifth (or sixth?) Valentine’s Day together, I told my husband I did not like roses. Not one bit. In fact, they made my nose itchy and gave me a headache.
And I did not stop there.
I asked my husband if he would just give me the cash he usually spends on roses. Huge fan of cash right here. Universally accepted. Plus, I get to pick out my own Valentine’s Day token of his love for me; he need not participate. Win, win, win.
I have never written down this story before. When I have mentioned it in conversation, people do not respond well. Sometimes, they slowly back away from me.
Roses are not a referendum on our love. I write this story in solidarity with anyone who celebrates Valentine’s Day out of the box. And those who opt out of celebrating entirely for any or no reason.
To thine own heart be true.