human, being

February 14, 2009, 3:03 am
Filed under: life, love and relationships | Tags: , , , ,

Sometimes I forget a simple fact about Steve. He is a romantic.

He’s not an every day romantic. He may look at me and think, wow, she’s gorgeous, but he rarely says it out loud. He may not call me or text me like I’d like him to during the day, just to tell me he’s thinking of me. When he does, though, it goes something like this:

“I was just hearing that song, you know the one that has that line about the swing of your hips? And it made me think of those times when you dance a little for me. You may not know it but that’s your song. So I thought I’d call you and tell you that even when I don’t call, little things during the day remind me of you, and I think of you, and I smile.”

Sometimes, when he’s in trouble but other times just because, he’ll bring home flowers, or he’ll give me a card. But on the big occasions, like Valentine’s Day, he always hits it out of the park.

Our first Valentines Day, 2006, happened six weeks into our relationship. Talk about pressure! I can’t remember what I got for him. But I do remember what he got me: He took me to dinner at a Moroccan restaurant, complete with sexy belly dancer, where he presented me with a beautifully wrapped box. Inside was hands down the best love letter I had ever received in my life and a gc for a “chocolate” spa day at La Fontaine, a gorgeous spa in Cherry Creek. He didn’t know that I love spa activities, but I rarely treat myself to them. Total home run.

When he brings home flowers, it’s not just whatever he can grab at the grocery store. He takes the time to find my favorites and build a bouquet just for me. On special occasions, he works with the florist to make something special for me. And the cards he picks out–usually, they’re Leaning Tree, and they are so absolutely perfect for wherever we are in our relationship. The other night, when he was about three hours late coming home from work, he brought me a simple card with Snoopy and Woodstock on the front. Inside, he wrote: “You are my happy place.” It’s above our home desk and it brings a smile to my face every time I see it.

But best of all are his love notes. He is a beautiful writer, and doesn’t give himself the credit he deserves. Invariably, he makes me cry. I have two of them in my office, including one tacked on the wall that reminds me that I have a man who loves me with all of his heart, even when I’m filled with doubt about myself.

We had talked a bit about Valentine’s Day over the past couple of weeks. We are invited to a friend’s party for Valentine’s Day proper, and we aren’t in the mood to be out on “amateur night” at a restaurant. The service is usually bad, the prices high. A couple of days ago, he asked if I was going to be at work on Friday afternoon, and was noticeably bummed to learn I was going to be at Lauren’s school at 2 pm for her party. I had spent time about a month ago picking out a card for him, and I planned to cook him dinner tonight. When I got home, around 630, I stopped in my tracks because sitting on my dining room table was a stunning bouquet. It’s a sculpted bouquet with pink and purple flowers, including Sterling roses, and my favorite yellow gerber daisies. A few days ago, he had visited his favorite independent florist, Terra Flora on Evans, and chatted up the owner. They discussed my love of dragonflies, my favorite colors and flowers. They discussed the bowl or vase the arrangement would be in. And then he let the florist be creative. He was going to deliver the flowers to me at work, because he totally gets it that half of the joy of getting flowers is showing them off.

While the arrangement is stunning, the card he’d tucked into it was the best part of it. Titled “How Much I Love You,” the two dozen lines are like a set of the best wedding vows ever written. I often ask him, apropos of nothing, “How much?” Usually, he’s silly in his answer. My favorite so far: One MILLION kittens. (I’m going to inscribe that inside his wedding band.) I’m sure I will continue to ask him that question, because I love his answers. But this is a card that’s not going into the heart-shaped box where I keep all the little notes he’s given me. This one is going in my purse where I can pull it out and read it whenever I want to.

He had a bottle of champagne we’d purchased two years ago for a “special occasion” sitting on the dining room table. I cooked us dinner and we ate a big hunk of Dairy Queen ice cream cake (mmm turtle oreo blizzard). We watched a TiVO’d CSI and I fell asleep in his arms on the couch. It was perfect.

As we cuddled on the couch, he told me about a time near the beginning of our relationship when we had been watching a movie and I fell asleep with my head on his chest. He described how he very carefully reached for the remote at the end of the movie to turn off the TV, then sat there holding me for a while. He recounted how good it made him feel that I was so comfortable with him that I could fall asleep. I remembered then how safe I felt with him from the very beginning, like I knew he would be careful with my heart. I need to remember that more often, because at the base of it, that’s what he does.

I was in love once before, in college. But that was immature love. I didn’t know who I was, or what I wanted, and it fell apart. This is the second time I’ve been truly in love, and this is grown-up love, honest, realistic. I understand that if I want Hollywood-style romance every day, I need to watch more romantic movies. But if I want to feel loved, all I need to do is look into Steve’s eyes, get beyond the everyday stress, and see the truth. And read his love letters to me.


1 Comment so far
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Don’t you think that Valentine’s Day is a bit of overrated bullshit? I mean, really, if you can’t be romantic and loving on any given day of the year, what kind of lover are you? I personally don’t celebrate it–it’s made up to make you spend money. My husband and I might say Happy Valentine’s Day to each other, but we think anything else is catering to consumerism.

Comment by Heather

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