Valentine’s Day is in February. I had to be told. I had to be told by my wife. That’s not good.
“You mean it’s not in May?!?” I said. “I thought for sure it was in May! Did they move it this year?”
“No … um … it’s kind of always in February,” she said.
“That’s awfully close to Christmas,” I told her. “Someone should look into that.”
Like a lot of men, Valentine’s Day usually becomes an afterthought. A day when some flowers are hastily arranged — “Hey, are those daisies growing on the side of the road?!?” Or a card is bought — “Hey, this one is on sale!” Or a dinner reservation is secured — “I know it’s fast food, but can you just say, ‘Table for two?’”
As kids, the holiday was mostly about writing Valentine cards for classmates. That was … well, interesting when you consider I went to an all-boys school. The boxes of pre-written cards made for awkward moments at the Academy of the Holy Names. Nothing like telling your chum how “sweet your smile is,” or that he had the “the finest hair in all the land,” or to “please be mine.” There were a lot of fistfights at recess every Valentine’s Day.
Didn’t exactly lay the right foundation for a holiday that’s supposed to be about … say … what’s it about again?
Oh, romance! And love. And kissy-smoochy things. That’s right. How easily I forget. Next week, you lug-head! Don’t forget it’s next week.
So this year I’ve endeavored to take Valentine’s Day more seriously. (Which is why I’m writing about it in my serious column! See, it’s working already.)
And I plan to take it a step further: I’m going to learn how to become a hopeless romantic. Yes, a hopeless romantic.
How will I do it? Well, the Internet, of course. That’s how the great romantic pioneers did it back in the day. They Googled it, man!
That’s what I did.
One site told me not to confuse materialism with romance. Meaning, true romantics don’t just buy gifts like 82-inch flat screen TVs made into the shape of hearts. They know that their partner wants something more meaningful and heartfelt. Something that is different and says what you really think about her. Like a key chain!
Another site said to do something out of character — something surprising and unique. That won’t be expected. I can check that one off. Simply becoming a hopeless romantic will put my wife into cardiac arrest, so “surprise” is in the bag.
Being a Prince Charming was another site’s advice. I have no idea what that means. I mean, I am pretty dashing and I often like to wear fancy getups with lots of meddles and frilly things on the shoulder pads. But there has to be more to it than that. A Prince Charming will sweep a woman off her feet. He will break into dance at the most inopportune times — “Carrying soup?!? Throw down that swill, my darling, and Waltz with me!” They say nice, romantic, flowery things. Things like, “Your eyes remind me of an autumn evening when the sun is dipping low on the horizon. Just like the days I used to spend with my high school sweetheart at the lake. She sure was swell!” Stuff like that.
Others gave super-awesome, lovey-dovey quotes to whisper in her ear. You know, romantic stuff by the great romantic pioneers of love. Like these: “I was nauseous and tingly all over. I was either in love or I had smallpox.” That was once uttered by the great romanticist Woody Allen. Or this gem from an unknown source: “Love is grand, and divorce is a hundred grand.”
Or, maybe I just keep it simple. Cook a nice meal. Make her day easy and carefree and fun. Actually talk about something she wants to talk about, instead of just staring blankly and saying, “Wait, can you say that again … pretty much from the beginning? … I was watching a squirrel out the window.”
Make her feel special and important and wanted. Make her know that meeting her was the best thing that ever happened to me. Even though I don’t always show it. Even though I take her for granted. That there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think I’m the luckiest man alive.
Somehow, and I haven’t figured this out yet, there has got to be a way to make her understand that things are better when she’s around. And drab and boring and empty when she isn’t. Dang, I’ve got to think of something!
At least I have until May. That’s plenty of time to get the message right. And to find some wild daisies growing on the side of the road.