Valentine’s Day, a Hallmark holiday at best (I issue the same decree for Sweetest Day), is fast on the approach. Florists are pushing their ads for resplendent bouquets and diamond retailers are taking siege of the airwaves and television ad time, luring buyers with exclusive limited-time sales. American Greetings is selling cards like crazy and grocery stores are overstocking chocolates from the likes of Hershey, Esther Price and Godiva. More than ever, this so-called “holiday” is an observance of impetuous consumerism, an imprudent excuse for people in relationships to show their love for one another with petty objects like flowers (which, glaringly out of season, die quickly), stuffed animals (that either gather dust or get passed down to the recipient’s children, if they have any) and diamond or gold jewelry (usually a sign of the gifter’s financial status more than their love).
Personally, I hate it and I think the fact that I’m a born cynic contributes to that hatred. Sure, I did some of that frivolous gifting in the early days of my relationship but after a while it seemed nonsensical, especially when there were not only better ways of expressing sentiment but also better things on which hard-earned money could be spent. I choose to ignore the day altogether since it doesn’t mean much to me. Muslims have been advised to do the same, the chairman of the Council of Indonesian Ulema citing that “it is not an Islamic tradition…Valentine’s Day celebrations tend to be marked by frivolous, extravagant behavior or even improper activities.” Those Muslims are on to something.
But why does one need an assigned day to express their love, I ask? Shouldn’t you feel the urge to do that any day of the week, regardless of the time of year? Why should a day marked by a saint of yore make it that much more poignant?
I am of the belief that it allows men (and some women) to be less creative about how they romance their partner.
“This marriage proposal will be great because it’s on Valentine’s Day.” Way to use your imagination and make it more personal, you lazy bum.
Or this awful reason:
“It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m buying her flowers because if I don’t, she’ll be mad/upset.” I find this absolutely unacceptable for two reasons:
1) The man comes off spineless because he’s choosing a routine materialistic display of affection based solely on the demands of his partner
2) It makes the woman look like a materialistic guilt-monger
I’ve been with my husband for over 11 years now. We’re well past the flowers and candy stage and he has never been the type of guy to visit a jeweler for any reason other than his proposal of marriage to me along with the procurement of my wedding ring. While it’s nice to have these beautiful baubles encircling your neck, studding your ears or adorning your fingers and/or wrists, they pose no purpose other than to draw envy from other women, make us feel pretty and regal, and represent our paramour’s expansive pocketbook.
You can have all the diamonds in the world from a rich man, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he’s an asshole, now would it? So instead of expecting to be wined and dined just because it’s a particular day out of the year and then thinking your mate doesn’t love you because they didn’t, stop for a minute and think about all the little things that your partner DOES do for you that anyone else wouldn’t even think of or bother with.
I’ll give you a good example. I’ve nagged my husband for months upon months about picking his clothes up off the floor, garments that routinely form a sizable rumpled mound on his side of the bed. There are days when those clothes are so loftily and widely piled that I don’t know how he gets into bed without making an Olympic high jump. The laundry chute in our house – which, ironically, he built – is just down the very short hallway connected to our small bedroom. Our house is little more than 700 square feet, but apparently this is too much of a hassle. So he peels off all the layers at bedtime and throws them to the floor and there they stay until my ranting begins again. Despite all this ranting I’ve done, I’ve still gone over to his side of the bed, picked up that aging heap and laundered all of it because rather than humble him by making him pick through the entirety of the household’s dirty pile to get dressed, I’d rather be certain that he has clean clothes to wear to work. He is, after all, the sole breadwinner and I am here at home all day with our two young children and have a considerable amount of time to do laundry, among other domestic chores.
Though I grumble while I do it, I persist with it because I love him. I do it because I’d rather he be invested with confidence from a Downy-fresh ensemble than distracted from his work because he’s worried that his co-workers might catch a whiff of the telltale mustiness that only dirty laundry engenders. There are two other men I would do this for (my dad and my brother) – all the rest I am content to leave to their own devices, in particular the act of fishing through the dirty pile for a shirt that doesn’t smell positively vile or sports conspicuous stains.
Here is what my husband does for me. Monday through Friday (and sometimes Saturday), he gets up early in the morning. He showers, gets dressed and combs his hair. He goes out into the living room and pulls the laces on his steel-toed work boots taut before tying them. He gives the cat a good rub on her roly-poly belly and then comes back into the bedroom to kiss me goodbye and tell me he loves me. Then he gets into his truck, puts the key in the ignition, braves the traffic of I-71 and walks in the front doors of a job that stresses him out morning, noon and night. He does this for between an average of 50-60 hours a week, every month, all year long, so that I can be the primary caretaker of our children, the caretaker that will provide the utmost love, concern and protection. He does this so that I do not have to have an 8-to-5 job that will make little pay and offer little reward, that will make me reliant on public childcare services (while at the same time siphoning every cent of my measly income to pay for those services) and that will cause me stress when I have to take a day off because of a sick child.
So you see, the sentiment expressed through one’s actions, great and small, is far more ample than the purchase of a Whitman’s Sampler or a combination card-and-bouquet. When you change your perspective and learn to appreciate the power of those little everyday favors, then every day becomes Valentine’s Day. Though Cupid may drain our checking accounts from misguided generosity through the rash avenues of passion, he almost always fills us with the best intentions. It is only through time’s dilution of his charmed arrow that the magic of love’s little biases truly becomes persuasive.
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