Why My Wife and I NEVER Celebrate Valentine’s Day
It all started with a White Chocolate Rose.
My wife and I go to great lengths to celebrate each others’ birthdays, father’s day, mother’s day, our anniversary, and several other occasions. But we avoid celebrating Valentine’s Day at all costs. Here’s why.
Our first Valentine’s Day was just a month and a half after we got married. A combination of work and family commitments kept us apart on Valentine’s Day itself, clear through the next weekend.
But when we did finally get back together on the Monday of President’s Day weekend, I actually remembered to bring my wife a little stuffed dog that held between its front paws a cute heart that read, “Luv U”.
I gave it to her. She threw her arms around me, and we immediately commenced celebrating Valentine’s Day on President’s Day, while hiding on the floor behind the bed in the guest room of D’s great-aunt’s house.
We ignored the rest of the extended family gathered downstairs.
It seemed a little unorthodox to me, but D insisted, and as a brand-new husband, it just felt right to go with the flow.
Our second Valentine’s Day occurred 6 days after our daughter was born — which is another story.
(See also: It’s My Wife’s Fault That I Became a Father.)
I had been at work all day, but stopped at the store on the way home to get a little white chocolate rose to give to D, because, that’s just the kind of thoughtful husband I am, ya know?
I walked in the door, told D “Happy Valentine’s Day”, kissed her, and handed her the rose.
D promptly burst out crying, and was inconsolable for at least 10 minutes. This wasn’t just a few tears, but was some odd combination of bawling and yelling at me. It wasn’t pretty.
It turns out that this particular Valentine’s Day was also the day that D’s sister got married. Having a newborn, D wasn’t allowed to travel 12 hours to Southern California to be there. And her sister was just a little less-than-understanding.
The baby blues had hit with a vengeance. On top of that, the baby wouldn’t nurse and wouldn’t stop crying. And, D couldn’t leave the house, so she was trying to make me a Valentine’s card from construction paper with one hand, while holding the crying baby with the other.
It wasn’t done when I walked in the door.
As you can imagine, I was a bit startled to discover what a thoughtless, inconsiderate husband I was, because I came home too soon.
We quickly agreed that it would be best if I took the baby out for a long, long walk, and started my homecoming all over again much later.
Neither of us really care for white chocolate roses anymore.
And, after that traumatic day, we kind of shy away from Valentine’s Day altogether. I know that I get a kind of cold shiver down my spine at just the mention.
A few years later, I was on a work trip the week of Valentine’s Day. Because of some odd scheduling conflicts, we couldn’t get a flight out of Portland until the morning after Valentine’s Day. And so, four of us, all guys, were stuck in Portland on Valentine’s Day.
That trip is memorable for a couple of reasons.
For example, I’ll always remember the sly looks and a few winks as the four of us went from restaurant to restaurant the evening of Valentine’s Day, only to be told that they couldn’t seat us if we didn’t have reservations.
We were starving, and just wanted food. We didn’t much care how they seated us. We were there on a per diem, after all. Not even a healthy tip could change minds.
We finally ended up at an interesting Japanese food place far off the beaten path. We got right in — because we were the only ones dining there that night. The laundromat next door had more going on than that restaurant did (and it didn’t appear to have much to do with washing clothes).
At some point during the evening, the other guys were scouring several quaint shops, trying to find appropriate “I’m sorry, please forgive me” gifts to give their spouses and girlfriend when they got home, as recompense for not being there on Valentine’s Day.
D called me while that was going on, and I asked her if she wanted me to get her something.
“Just get that sexy bod of yours back here so we can properly celebrate President’s Day,” she told me.
That I can do.
No white chocolate roses required.
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