It never works out for us, this thing called Valentine's Day. Something always happens that leaves us scratching our heads and wondering why these things always happen and why they always happen to us. This year dawns with me being unemployed. Yippee! Lots to celebrate there. We went for a walk in the morning and Emily's schmootzy cold began to get worse. She was dispirited.
We got home, and after I made breakfast I completed the homework I had from my job interview last week and sent that on. Then, I began looking for other jobs. I found a couple I wanted to apply for and that's when things really went off the tracks.
I have a thumb drive that has virtually my entire life on it. It is usually a backup, but right now, it is the only medium upon which I have my important files (like my resume). Well, I couldn't find it. The search began. Up the stairs, down the stairs, under the bed, in my desk, in pockets of clothes I wore since the last time I had seen it. Furniture was moved, flashlights used to peer into deep dark corners.
Somewhere in the midst of all this searching I came to realize the thing I am looking for is virtually indistinguishable from the little gray cat toys in the shape of mice we have to entertain and astonish the cats. You know, the ones they incessantly bat around the house and manage to punt into the darnedest places, like the cold air return vents and same said deep dark corners. I surmised I had laid the thing on the side table and it got batted into the HVAC system, or under some furniture, or into the dread trash can.
There is nothing that says romantic so much as digging through many days old trash. One must act gingerly, slowly, carefully, so as to be thorough and not get dumpster funk all over them. It is a delicate and unpleasant operation, like changing the diaper on a parent (I imagine).
I did not find it.
Em was in on the search now in between rapid-fire calls from her boss. I was keeping her from her lunch and her cold was continuing to ratchet up in its quest for total domination of her body. Halfway through Valentine's Day I am up to my arms in trash searching for my "life", the house is torn apart, my wife is sick. No need to guess whether this night will end with a bang or a whimper (pun very much intended).
After remembering I wore a different pair of jeans than I previously remembered the other day, I found the thumb drive in the pocket and set about putting the house back in order. Thanks again to my great friend, Saint Anthony, who has never let me down, yet.
"Life" in hand, I applied for the couple jobs without a whole lot of hope that I would ever hear anything back. And went on with the afternoon.
Em was going to make a special dinner, but on account of her not feeling well, let alone not being able taste anything, she decided to make a somewhat less special one. I thought it was pretty special, as I marvel every day that anyone would ever make me dinner, let alone live with me, let alone alone be married to me. So on the scale of special, that's pretty much every day.
I had a couple of martinis, which is always good for the outlook and we enjoyed dinner. We were to exchange gifts after dinner, so while it was being prepared, I went to my dresser where I had hidden the gift with designs of wrapping it. It was the first time I had looked at the gift, having intercepted the box it came in and spirited it away on the quick in an attempt to keep it somewhat of a secret as the address label would have given it away completely.
I did not immediately find things as they should be. All I could find was the "free gift with purchase" portion of what I had ordered. My sister-in-law, from whom I ordered the Pandora charms (she is a regional manager for a retailer who deals in preciously expensive baubles which no one, anywhere, ever needs- in other words, perfect Valentine's Day presents) was called in on the case and was sweet and patient as she described what I should be looking for.
Eureka! Crisis averted, I found the small satchel that included the three charms and I put the whole works in a gift bag and clumsily stuffed some tissue paper over the top of it. How anyone makes these things look good I don't know. They always look like a hastily constructed project of a second grader when I do it.
Dinner was lovely, we exchanged gifts and retired to the front of the T.V., whereupon my martinis began sitting on my eyelids. Bed at Ten with a simple, drowsy smooch. Just the way the fates intended it to be.
Last year, I was sick, the year before we were accosted by a belligerent homeless man on the way to dinner, and I don't remember the year before that as I am not even sure we were together (in the sense of being in the same physical space). It just never seems to work out for us on Valentine's day. I think it has to do with expectations. We desperately want things to go well and be special, but instead of striving for that every day, we try to cram it into a day where everyone else in the country is trying to do the same. Costs for chocolate and flowers shoot up, reservations are impossible to get, Hallmark stores resemble Ellis Island or Night of the Living Dead with men careening around the racks wondering just what the best card will be. It really is a lesson in setting yourself up for failure.
If yesterday were any other day than Valentine's day, it would have passed as unremarkable as any other day, but in the context of the expectations of the day, it was a disaster.
This week, I have a second interview so that looks good. I also have some time to relax a little before working on scraping paint and doing taxes. Somewhere in there, I am sure Em will feel better and will make that special meal which I am sure will be lovely, like all the meals she makes. I will have to make sure that these days, and their finest points, don't go unnoticed or unappreciated, title be damned.
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