I think I’ve told you this before, and I hope it doesn’t make you think I’ve lost my standing as a hopeless romantic, but, I buy my own flowers for Valentine’s Day. Let me tell you why. First, I hate the pressure this task puts upon my handsome husband of forty-three years. (If you’ve never met him, just imagine the best possible mixture of Sam Elliott, Tom Selleck, and the Professor from Narnia. )
Second, I don’t need to be surprised by his love. I know he loves me. We tell one another several times a day. Sometimes we even say it out loud.
I do, however, need flowers scattered about the house (and possibly my office) in February. I need this the same way I need twinkle lights and greenery in December. I want to celebrate the glories of love all month.
When I made this discovery a few years ago, it set us both free. Hurray! I do want flowers, but you don’t have to struggle to figure out which bouquet or how to buy them without me seeing the credit card bill!
Instead, we will go out to supper on Valentine’s Day, probably, and then we’ll swing by a store somewhere and pick out a mixed bouquet or two. Maybe three if they are on desperation sale by then. I will love them just as much as I would have if some nameless delivery boy had dropped them by my office. Probably more. Because we will have laughed together while we bought them. And we will probably grab a quick kiss in the aisle while we are at it.
This, Dear Reader, is one of the benefits of growing old together. You are going to love it.