This past weekend, my Facebook feed was filled with hearts and roses. Ah, Valentine’s Day. Pete and I don’t usually make a thing out of it. Some of it probably has to do with it occurring two weeks after our anniversary and some is pure laziness that you develop after being together awhile. Yeah, we make fun of it being a silly holiday, but it’s really just to make ourselves feel better for not doing anything for it.
After a week of frigid temps and feeling like we needed to get out of the house before our couch simply turned into a sculpture of our asses, we decided to go out Saturday night and grab dinner. We avoided the fancy places that required reservations and went to a local burger joint which ended up being filled with tables of single college girls pledging friend love over romantic love and couples like us that 1) forgot to make reservations or 2) don’t plan on having sex later because burgers and shakes aren’t pre-aerobic food.
Almost in an effort to prove that we did not take the holiday seriously, I gave Pete the seat facing the TV so that he could watch Syracuse/Duke basketball game. At one point though, I heard the two girls on a friend date beside me talk about what a lame-o holiday it was. How very “Hallmark.” (P.S. You gotta come up with a better insult than that, hipster ladies. It’s been beaten to the ground.) I mean, complaining about people only professing their love one day a year? You could say that about Thanksgiving too. But I like think these holidays are about celebrating the spirit of love and gratitude. Because, let’s face it, we don’t always do a good job of celebrating every day.
As I was forming my surprisingly pro-Valentine argument in my head against these girls, I decided to get in the spirit myself and spice things up. At this point, Pete was deeply engrossed in the basketball game, so I decided to bring the attention back to us. I slowly slid my foot up his leg… to his thigh… “OMG! OUCH! You just smashed my fingers! What are you doing?” “Trying to be sexy,” I countered, “Why is your hand in your crotch?!”
After he made sure his fingers hadn’t fallen off, I decided to try again. “Mae! What are you doing?” “I told you. I’m being sexy!” “Well, can you stop? Your shoes are getting salt on my coat.” Le sigh.
Shortly after, the waiter came by to offer their special red velvet spiked milkshake, and suddenly I no longer cared about being sexy, just how much vodka was in the shake.
Filled with burgers and milkshakes, we rolled ourselves back home and onto our butt prints on the couch. For the rest of the night, there was lots of groaning coming from our house, but it was because neither of us could make enough room in our bodies to take a full breath.
And if Valentine’s Day is truly about love, isn’t this the essence of it? Not sex, but the uncomfortable, bloated, gassy, hilarious, ok-with-whatever-state-you’re-in kind of love?
If so, we have this thing down.