I’m really not a Valentine’s sort of gal. The so-called holiday is cheesy, sappy, over-commercialized, and just generally awkward, especially since I totally stink at the whole gift-giving thing. Normally, Valentine’s Day passes with barely a nod from yours truly. My husband and I have been married almost fifteen years, and we’ve never been big on Valentine’s Day. Why start now, when strands of gray and white appear at random in his beard and my hair? (More often in his beard than in my hair, of course…)
Cinematic events unfolding as they are, however…
I find myself wanting to celebrate true love this weekend. I’m not asking the husband for flowers or chocolate or even a night out. In fact, he’ll be off spelunking with two of our kids while I hang out at home with the other two, so yeah… I’ll be home alone Saturday night, and I can guarantee I won’t be watching chick-flicks or any other celebrated new releases.
(Although I might finally catch Divergent on Amazon with the oldest…)
No, I’ll be thinking about how a faithful friend is sexier than a dangerous stranger, how a considerate husband is more satisfying than a wealthy boss, how a man who genuinely cares for his wife and children is worth more than anything the world could offer.
I might go so far as to change my Facebook profile picture to images of love – true love, not selfish domination, not passing fascination, but love deep and true and beautiful.
When we were very young…
… we were as weird as we are now, and every bit in love.
That wasn’t our baby, by the way, but we do love him.
Aw, look. Love behind us, too.