Anticipating Valentine’s Day
Oooh, Valentine’s Day. It’s never been a favorite holiday of mine, I have to admit. If I could forget it, I probably would.
From the very first ‘celebrations’ in elementary school, I could take it or leave it. (If you can even call the mass card swapping event, with givers’ names usually haphazardly scrawled without any personalization, words of affection, or even friendship, designed to keep everyone feeling good and no one left out, a ‘celebration’.) I never received a valentine that even vaguely resembled the hype we were taught or made me think there might be some classmate secretly hoping I would be their special sweetie.
And there was definitely the sense of impending doom given off by those who, in retrospect, probably never received a heartfelt expression of love or curiosity from a classmate, especially at that age. In fact, some were almost certainly living in environments that didn’t include being told they were loved by anyone, much less a secret someone their own age. There are a few kids I remember from those days, whom I wish I could go back and be kinder to. I had no idea some of my classmates had to endure cruelty and abuse every day. It was inconceivable to me that anyone’s parent could be mean and horrible to a little kid.
The Pressure Builds
In junior and senior high school the pressure only became greater; the hype more intense. In junior high school (7thand 8thgrade), a valentine could be monumental. It could indicate a willingness to maybe be ‘liked’ by somebody. <<shivers>>
But by senior high school, if you were in a relationship, the pressure was on.
To be honest? I cannot remember one single Valentine’s Day card or gift I received in my youth or young adulthood. Which is kind of sad when you think about how pressure-filled the days leading up to it often felt.
All of which leads me to the debacle that was my first Valentine’s Day with Karl. We’d met in September, right after I’d arrived on campus at Penn State, fresh from my year as an exchange student in Sweden. Karl was a ‘night receptionist’ in my dorm. Yeah, back then we needed knights waiting patiently in our lobbies, checking residents’ keys, making sure no males were walking around ‘unescorted,’ essentially acting as Guardians of our Virtue.
Anyone who knows us can just imagine the grief I gave him when the elevator doors opened and I first laid eyes on him sitting facing those doors – and noticed that his eyes were closed. And noticed his breathing was decidedly rhythmic.
“Hey!” I called out, startling him awake. “We’re all going to get raped and it’s going to be your fault.” Yes, those were the first words I lobbed at the man who would end up fathering my children years later.
The Stirrings of a Life-long Love
It took a while, I’ll admit. It’s not as though we swept each other off our feet immediately. (Although I fell way faster than I wanted – and expected – having sworn off long-term relationships after being dumped long distance while I was in Sweden.) But that night receptionist’s job of his gave us a lot of opportunity to sit and talk. And talk. And argue. And talk. And…really get to know each other.
Suffice it to say, by February, we were well on our way to having more than an inkling that our mutual future might hold great promise.
Cue Valentine’s Day.
Oh yeah. I felt pressure. What to get this handsome, sensitive, intelligent guy that would let him know I was really falling for him, but wouldn’t scare him away?
Well, one of the things that we could talk about for hours and hours and hours, indeed well into the wee hours of the morning, was our love of books. And this was before the advent of the big box bookstores such as Borders or Barnes & Noble. Or (obviously) Amazon. Back then people were much less likely to own a lot of books. Rather, they went to the library. So owning books was a treat.
Somehow or another, I’m sure as a result of our long and luxurious conversations (I could with some snark say, “…from listening to him…”), I knew he would love the Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov.
Beginning an ‘Illustrious’ Tradition
When the day arrived, he came up to my room and we shyly exchanged our gifts. My heart soared. I could tell from the shape and size of what he handed me that he, too, had thought to give the gift of a book. “Mmm,” I thought. “We’re on the same page. We love the same things.”
Imagine my surprise, then, when I opened my gift.
Yes. This is the very first gift Karl ever gave me for Valentine’s Day. And not only was this his actual gift to me (I thought he was kidding – he had to be kidding, right?), he was not kidding; he thought it was cute.
Somehow, we managed to survive that debacle. (I have to admit; it floored me – for many reasons, as you might imagine.) And we began a tradition of giving each other books that has lasted many years.
Receipt of “I’m a Fridgit,” however, did begin a reign of terror that has haunted our personal enjoyment of the 14thof February. I say that, and it’s true to a degree; but honestly? It’s a great story. And for that, I love him. That and his quirky sense of romance.
Quirky. Yeah. That’s the ticket.
Tomorrow will be our 41stValentine’s Day together. I’m waiting with baited breath. (Not.) But maybe we’ll take a ride to the bookstore in Peddler’s Village, or Farley’s, or Doylestown Book Shoppe. At least we’re lucky to have small, independent, wonderful book shops near us!
May you celebrate your love with a sense of humor and a deliciously good book.
(T-1017)