I know it's hip to hate on Valentine's Day. The flowers and cards are overpriced. It's a commercial holiday. We should let our loved ones know we love them all year 'round. Yeah, yeah, I get it. But I love Valentine's Day, and I don't care who knows it. Devon and I went for a couples massage over the weekend. That's a lot less dirty than it sounds. It's just two people getting massages in the same room, mostly naked. With young, attractive women rubbing them down with lotion and oil. And asking them whether they would like it harder.
Oh, fuck it. Forget it.
On Valentine's Day, we made shrimp scampi, roasted asparagus and tiramisu, and we watched Casablanca and drank the last bottle of champagne from the wedding. I got a lovely bouquet of roses, and I made Devon a card.
I know the flowers will die. It's OK. I don't need a lifetime warranty. I don't insist my candles burn forever or that the champagne we drank stay on my tongue for eternity.
And it's not like we're nice to each other on V-Day and tell each other to fuck off every other day of the year. Life is tedious drudgery sometimes, and it's pretty awesome to pick a day where we brighten up the place with flowers, make a rockin' dinner and watch a great movie.
I don't mind being a great big girl sometimes.