VD
What's In Your Glovebox?
Valentine’s Day is a high-stakes operation, and the stress starts young—kindergarten, to be exact. My mom would buy a box of 30 Valentine cards, sign my name to each one, slide them into envelopes, and address them to my classmates with less than a little enthusiasm.
But then, there was always THAT MOM. The rogue mom. The one who slipped a candy heart into each envelope, effectively making my mom look like a love-hating cheapskate. “Unnecessary expense,” she’d say.
Middle school only made things worse. The First Period Homeroom Valentine’s Day Exchange was an event of pure torture. Suddenly, not all cards were created equal. Certain cards were obviously for girls, others for boys. Girls’ cards were divided into categories: “best friends,” “cool kids,” and “everybody else.” Boys’ cards? “He’s cute,” “he’s nice,” and “he’s a pain in the ass.” Every message was scrutinized for hidden meanings.
By high school, things were at near-crisis level. If you had a boyfriend, the card choice was a make-or-break decision. Too mushy? Too casual? Would he analyze it? Would he even READ it? Then, of course, came the card he picked out for me—was it romantic enough? Did it have a secret meaning? How did he SIGN it? ( Did he GET ME ONE?) The possibilities for emotional turmoil were endless. And if flowers or gifts entered the equation, they were worth a solid month of gossip.
Ahhhhh......the post-high school era. Things relaxed—I, having mastered the art of feigned surprise, knew exactly how to react at the right moment. As for my own gift-giving responsibilities? Easy. Buy a card, sign it with, “I will love you forever and ever, Amen,” and call it a day.
And then, there’s the final boss: marriage. In some ways, this is the most stressful stage of all. After 50 years my primary Valentine’s challenge is not choosing the card—it’s REMEMBERING to buy one. Then, I have to hide it somewhere so my husband won’t find it. I spend Valentine’s morning frantically searching for the hiding spot I so cleverly selected. (This also happens on our anniversary. It’s tradition now. You should see the glovebox in my car.)
Meanwhile, my husband presents me with his annual offerings: two cards (always two), See’s candy (It's my favorite), and flowers (from Trader Joe’s—because I'm practical). In return, I give him a kiss and promise my everlasting love.
Then, the final Valentine’s stressor arises: dinner. Go out? Order in? Cook? (Ha. No.) Once we navigate this decision, we breathe a sigh of relief. Home free.
Until next year.