Valentine’s Day is not a big celebration around here. And by “here” I mean in my household. Early on in our relationship I learned Cory’s feelings about this day heralded by cherubs and overpriced flowers. He hated the idea of somebody else deciding when and how he should express his love for me. Also early in our relationship I expressed that a complete disregard for the one day of guaranteed physical evidence of his undying love might be a bad idea. Therefore, we struck a deal and for the last several years I have received a token of Cory’s affection around Valentine’s Day. Not after, because I might be irritated by then. But usually somewhere within a week before the day of red, white and pink I am met with a pleasant surprise from my good husband. It works.
While compromises like these are necessary in every household, the truth is: it’s not about the flowers.
The real beauty lies in the fact that this is the guy who when we had been married about a year and my abdomen had to be sliced open and sealed back up with thirteen staples came running into the bathroom to support said staples in my stomach when he heard me throwing up. This is the guy I overheard telling my daughter to pick a different cereal for breakfast because her first choice was almost gone and happened to be “mommy’s favorite”. This is the guy who when I asked if he would rather clean out the fridge or clean the poo off of Drew’s shoe said, “Both”. This is the guy who when I mentioned how much I wanted to spend on a camera and classes said, “Go for it”. And this is the guy who said, a few months ago when we were listening to a Tina Turner song on the radio, “Well, in another 30 years they won’t be able to say that Tina Turner was the sexiest woman at 65 anymore.” (I’m 35 – you do the math.)
You see, real love is in the details. How lucky am I?