Valentine's Day is a complicated holiday for me in my journey to badass. On the one hand, it's a day devoted to having the ones we love remind us of their love for us, which is great. On the other hand, it's all frou-frou and frilly and there's a certain degree of "or else" in the air that I find sort of ooky. The high-stakes nature of the holiday has caused more headaches, heartaches and wallet-aches than just about any other. My own lovely spouse has busted his ass over the years to meet my wildly changing expectations for the day and that whole making people you love jump through hoops thing? Not at all of the good.
Other years, I've adopted a To-Hell-With-The-Whole-Thing attitude which was still unsatisfying. There's something about denying my need to be acknowledged as wildly sexy and inherently deserving of adoration (while doing the same for the Rockstar with whom I'm connected) that just feels...false, I guess. So that particular stance is off the table.
Rejecting both the full-scale buy-in and the broad-based rejection of the day leaves me with...what? Some wishy-washy, going-through-the-motions observation of the event? Candles and pizza? Tivo and sweatpants?
Maybe the secret is to stop trying so hard to be one or the other. Maybe it's okay to skip the cards and flowers and candles and just do what feels right, whether that be an evening of bill-paying and floor scrubbing or a snuggle on the sofa. Maybe Valentine's Day (a day which is historically about a 3rd Century prisoner with a bit of a romantic streak) is less about the trappings and more about the sentiment.
So here's my erstwhile Valentine to my Rock Star spouse:
You rock, my dear. Keep up the good work.
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