I Had a Bad Valentine's Day
I am grateful for the many sweet things in my life. For the people and places I've enjoyed over the past half century. Two of those people would not exist were it not for my husband; our children are his greatest gifts to me. I try to focus on all the good, defining love in ways other than the *****-moistening, nipple-stiffening, mouth-opening, tongue-swirling sorts of activities. The mother and friend ways. So I consider myself to have lots of love in my life.
But there are days - and let's face it, St. Valentine's Day is one of the paramount ones - where my definitions are not quite in keeping with the spirit of things. My beloved daughter, a marvelous middle school student who has yet to experience her first boyfriend, refers to February 14th rather sardonically as Singles Awareness Day. She says this with a grin rather than a grimace, not really minding that she is unattached. Her dear mama feels a bit of a pang, though, having tasted the sweetness of romantic love. With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson, I believe we can miss the love we've had far more than those who've never loved at all.
I don't like feeling wistful.
And I'm sorry that my husband is clearly feeling wistful as well. But my feelings for him have changed. It wasn't an overnight thing, and there were plenty of chances to recapture that lovin' feelin' we'd lost. The thing is that he squandered them. And I've detached. And it is as hard to reattach as it is to put back together any fragile thing that's been shattered. Try as we may, we cannot erase the memories of past exchanges, past hurts.
He came home today with a large bouquet of flowers. To his credit, they were not roses. He knows that though I love roses, I do not want to receive any from him because he gave me some years ago out of guilt for cheating on me. All roses are thus tainted with that memory. So the bouquet was a mixed assortment of pretty blooms. But he looked uncomfortable as he handed it to me, and I immediately ascertained why. The price sticker was still on the wrapping, and it was a hefty charge. I suspected he had not realized how spendy they were when he first went to buy them, but had felt obligated to go through with the purchase.
"Holy cow! Those are pricey!" I exclaimed. Lest you think those were the first words out of my mouth, let me assure you that my initial response was "Oh, thank you! How pretty!" But he saw that I saw the price tag, and I was not going to let it go unremarked upon. It was almost like he was hoping I'd say something. He is a frugal guy. Not cheap; he is very generous with me and the children, getting us many nice things. But he's careful with money. So am I. I am more the $5 bunch of daffodils kind of girl than the $30 bouquet girl. And I know this man. He was hoping I would get him out of this situation. When we go to restaurants, I am in charge of looking over the check to make sure prices are accurate; if they are not, I am the one who points it out to the waiter.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I wanted to get you something nice, and I didn't realize how expensive they were until they rang them up, and..." he trailed off. He hates confrontation. I was sure he decided to cough up the dough rather than admit to the cashier he had not realized the price and wanted to get something less costly.
"Honey," I began, "all I really want is your tulips." I softly brushed a finger over his mouth. It was an old joke between the two of us. I kissed him then, hoping I'd feel the way I used to. It was pleasant, kissing him, but there were no fireworks, no heart fluttering. "Why don't you let me return these and we can use the money for something fun for the two of us, like brunch out tomorrow?"
He looked grateful. "That would be great." He handed me the receipt.
"You need to understand," I said, "that you've already given me a wonderful present, letting me take our boy to the Juilliard auditions." It had been a fantastic trip, just mother and son, spending quality time together. "I will remember that time for the rest of my life," I said. My husband looked gratified.
That is what love is about. Time spent with the people I adore. I am trying to tell myself that tonight as St. Valentine's Day draws to a close, trying not to think of a group of men around the world who each make my heart beat faster, whose wonderful words and beautiful bodies make me climax just by seeing and listening to them. It's a challenge, honestly. The Chaucerian romantic love association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in his Parlement of Foules (1382). He wrote:
For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.
(For this was on Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.)
I miss having a real mate. I miss the sexual excitement of being with a man whose mind and body turn me on. I'm not sorry that there are only thirty minutes left on this St. Valentine's Day. Despite all the electronic gifts and cards I've received today from men, there's really just one thing I want from any of them: their tulips planted on mine. But that's not to be. At least, not today.
But there are days - and let's face it, St. Valentine's Day is one of the paramount ones - where my definitions are not quite in keeping with the spirit of things. My beloved daughter, a marvelous middle school student who has yet to experience her first boyfriend, refers to February 14th rather sardonically as Singles Awareness Day. She says this with a grin rather than a grimace, not really minding that she is unattached. Her dear mama feels a bit of a pang, though, having tasted the sweetness of romantic love. With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson, I believe we can miss the love we've had far more than those who've never loved at all.
I don't like feeling wistful.
And I'm sorry that my husband is clearly feeling wistful as well. But my feelings for him have changed. It wasn't an overnight thing, and there were plenty of chances to recapture that lovin' feelin' we'd lost. The thing is that he squandered them. And I've detached. And it is as hard to reattach as it is to put back together any fragile thing that's been shattered. Try as we may, we cannot erase the memories of past exchanges, past hurts.
He came home today with a large bouquet of flowers. To his credit, they were not roses. He knows that though I love roses, I do not want to receive any from him because he gave me some years ago out of guilt for cheating on me. All roses are thus tainted with that memory. So the bouquet was a mixed assortment of pretty blooms. But he looked uncomfortable as he handed it to me, and I immediately ascertained why. The price sticker was still on the wrapping, and it was a hefty charge. I suspected he had not realized how spendy they were when he first went to buy them, but had felt obligated to go through with the purchase.
"Holy cow! Those are pricey!" I exclaimed. Lest you think those were the first words out of my mouth, let me assure you that my initial response was "Oh, thank you! How pretty!" But he saw that I saw the price tag, and I was not going to let it go unremarked upon. It was almost like he was hoping I'd say something. He is a frugal guy. Not cheap; he is very generous with me and the children, getting us many nice things. But he's careful with money. So am I. I am more the $5 bunch of daffodils kind of girl than the $30 bouquet girl. And I know this man. He was hoping I would get him out of this situation. When we go to restaurants, I am in charge of looking over the check to make sure prices are accurate; if they are not, I am the one who points it out to the waiter.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I wanted to get you something nice, and I didn't realize how expensive they were until they rang them up, and..." he trailed off. He hates confrontation. I was sure he decided to cough up the dough rather than admit to the cashier he had not realized the price and wanted to get something less costly.
"Honey," I began, "all I really want is your tulips." I softly brushed a finger over his mouth. It was an old joke between the two of us. I kissed him then, hoping I'd feel the way I used to. It was pleasant, kissing him, but there were no fireworks, no heart fluttering. "Why don't you let me return these and we can use the money for something fun for the two of us, like brunch out tomorrow?"
He looked grateful. "That would be great." He handed me the receipt.
"You need to understand," I said, "that you've already given me a wonderful present, letting me take our boy to the Juilliard auditions." It had been a fantastic trip, just mother and son, spending quality time together. "I will remember that time for the rest of my life," I said. My husband looked gratified.
That is what love is about. Time spent with the people I adore. I am trying to tell myself that tonight as St. Valentine's Day draws to a close, trying not to think of a group of men around the world who each make my heart beat faster, whose wonderful words and beautiful bodies make me climax just by seeing and listening to them. It's a challenge, honestly. The Chaucerian romantic love association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in his Parlement of Foules (1382). He wrote:
For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.
(For this was on Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.)
I miss having a real mate. I miss the sexual excitement of being with a man whose mind and body turn me on. I'm not sorry that there are only thirty minutes left on this St. Valentine's Day. Despite all the electronic gifts and cards I've received today from men, there's really just one thing I want from any of them: their tulips planted on mine. But that's not to be. At least, not today.
By:
milkynips
Age:
46-50
,
Female
