Confessions from the Romantically Challenged
The day of hearts, flowers, eternal love, candy and cupid is staring me straight in the face and I have a confession to make; I’m very bad at romance. If you ask my husband, he might tell you that at one point in our marriage I tried to be romantic. I would buy Valentine’s Day cards that dripped and oozed of my undying love for him and my sworn hand on the Bible that I had found my soul mate. It took about five years before he finally said to me “Really?” and I laughed and told him, “No, not really,” and then handed him a second Valentine’s Day card from the humor section.
See in all fourteen years of marriage, Valentine’s Day is a dual holiday for us. Every four years we get to celebrate an anniversary. That’s right (for those of you doing the math and looking at the calendar); we were married on Leap Year. It was my answer to not having to remember an anniversary every year and the pressure to buy each other something or do something utterly romantic and sappy. Instead of doing dinner and movies or a party or even weekends with just the two of us every year, we plan and save for every Leap Year when we can run away and pretend we don’t have children or a mortgage or pets or bills. That is OUR TIME.
Whether he knew it at the time or not, my husband was getting a practical woman who loves to be swept off her feet but in reality is really terrible at doing the sweeping herself (both figuratively and literally).
Still, I’m staring down cupid’s arrow as Valentine’s Day is literally standing over my shoulder. I’ve not bought a card, there is no cardboard box filled with chocolate in the shape of the heart waiting for my dearest, and I don’t even have a clue what we should and could do on this Un-Anniversary-Valentine’s-Day holiday.
I know I can’t be the only woman out there who loves to have the knight in shining armor sweep her off her feet or cries whenever the boy gets the girl (and even loses the girl) at the end of every romantic movie ever made. I know I can’t be the only one who loves all these things for herself but hasn’t a clue of how to reciprocate these cherub-hearted emotions.
The one thing that I am really good at (and I’m pretty sure that all women are) is communicating and using my words. Maybe that’s why the cards at the store don’t get a rise from me like I think they should; No one can tell my husband how much he means to me better than me.
Which is why I decided to write my own card.
Even if you aren’t the most prolific writer, you can still put paper to pen and let your thoughts go. At the end of the day, put the kids to bed early, don’t ask him what he thinks of what you wrote, your confessions of love, and just let the evening go where it wants. Whether you end the day with fireworks that make even cupid blush or you simply fall asleep hogging the covers and snoring like a banshee (which I know NOTHING ABOUT), make the night, the day, the year yours.
I won’t get an anniversary this year, or next year for that matter but it doesn’t stop me from making sure my husband knows he’s loved and needed; and I do it with only the humorous and last minute grace that I know.