The Associations, Part One

I'd sworn I'd never be like my mother in law, returning gifts that my husband got me. But today, I did precisely that.  It's okay, though; he was relieved I did so.

We talked about it afterward, and he assured me my actions pleased him.  I, in turn, thanked him for the other things he'd done recently that made me so very happy.  I considered those more than sufficient gifts.  And he was glad to hear my words, and he said something that showed he understood just how ****** some of our previous Valentines Days had been, and was trying to make amends.

I'm not sure where to start to tell you this story.  I've just given you the summary version, but it's so devoid of detail that it's not much of a tale.  Perhaps we'll move backwards.  I'll start with the most recent thing.  He brought home a bouquet of flowers, despite my declaration in recent years that I don't really want flowers.  At least, I don't want flowers from him.  They signify too many unpleasant things.  I knew something was up fourteen years ago when he came home with a bunch of beautiful roses, you see.  A man does not go from never bringing home flowers to bringing home a spendy dozen of 'em without something being up.  They are the universal symbol of guilt in such circumstances.  Why he could not figure this one out is not clear, but I suppose each of us has our blind spots.  After all, it took me well over a year to figure out he was having an affair.  The affair which led him to make his costly purchase of the asham.  That's the Hebrew word for guilt offering, referenced in Leviticus 5:6.  Those were not flowers, though.  They were a female from the flock, a lamb or a goat. 

Anyhoo.  I'm babbling.  I'm really tired.  I suppose a small part of me feared a repeat of some more recent Valentines Day debacles.  So far, none have occurred, although I suppose the night is young.  There've been too many Valentines Days in the past six years where he's gotten drunk before we've even gone out.  Secretly, on the sly, sneaking some booze because it gave him a good feeling.  One that I, presumably, did not.  I took his drinking very personally.  I felt each time he got wasted he was making love to the bottle instead of me.  Numerous codependency counselors have tried to convince me it's not about me, that I should not take it so to heart, but I am afraid I am a bit of a narcissist.  If a mate drinks on St. Valentine's Day or one's birthday, it is hard not to feel rejected.

I've told a few men about the spectacularly awful February 14th I suffered in 2000.  I shan't repeat the story here, but you can read about it in my novels.  In any case, I'm hardly the only one who's been disappointment.  I think about one of my gentlemen friends, now divorced, who received nary a kiss last Valentine's Day when he presented his wife with flowers, candy and wine.  He'd been a very good husband for many years, I think.  It turned out the missus was having an affair, which may explain her standoffishness.  At least when my husband was fooling around, he kissed me on Valentine's Day.  He did other things that hurt me, but I was never treated as coldly as my friend was, going for years without sex.

Still, that day twelve years ago stood out for me because I'd made such a tremendous effort to woo him, to make him feel loved.  Oh, hell, I'll tell you the story.  He had been dumped by his lady love, I had learned of their shenanigans, and I was trying to recapture the magic in our marriage.  One older lady advised me to be his girlfriend.  So, unbeknownst to him,  I'd arranged for a sitter for our kids for two days.  I'd booked a room at Embassy Suites, complete with steak and lobster and oysters and wine (this was pre-alcoholic time) and bought a very sexy black sheer negligee.
I'd been in cahoots with some folks who staffed an organization he worked with to set up a reason for him to come to the hotel.  He was going to serve as a guide for some reporters who were touring the area from the east coast.  He was supposed to meet them at one location, and then at the last minute, the staffer called him to tell him to pick them up at the Embassy Suites instead.  She gave him the room number.

I waited there.  In my beautiful negligee, two glasses of red wine poured, the bed covers turned down, soft candlelight illuminating that room.  He knocked on the door.  To say he was surprised to see me would be a bit of an understatement. 

And then I saw it.  That flash of disappointment.  That I was not a bunch of reporters, but just me.  I pretended not to notice, and drew him to the bed, where I made love to him.  Twice.  That was back in the day when his erection was a sure thing, even though I was no longer the girl of his dreams.

Then we lay on the bed together naked, floating.  He reached over to the nightstand where he'd put his watch.  And he said something that has stayed with me these past dozen years.   "I can get a bit more work in if I go back to the office now."

Bear in mind he'd planned to be with the reporters until late that evening.