Valentine’s Day feels a little different this year, with my
boyfriend living more than 300 miles away.
Valentine’s Day feels a little different this year, with my boyfriend living more than 300 miles away. The meaning of the romantic holiday has always been somewhat superficial, in my opinion, but being in a long-distance relationship, it offers another valuable opportunity to nourish our relationship and focus on what’s important. When the person you love is miles away, the excess details seem to fall by the wayside.
Judging from what pop culture would have us believe, Valentine’s Day involves planning the perfect date, selecting a terribly meaningful gift – bonus points for chocolate, flowers and diamonds – and wearing a knockout dress.
For me, Valentine’s is not about the presents, and after the fallout from last year’s, I’m not sure I’ll ever want one again. John actually gave me a sweet, thoughtful gift – an hour-long Swedish massage – but it took me until last weekend to actually cash in the gift certificate. I never used it last spring because I wanted to look forward to getting a massage for as long as possible. Then, after moving to Gilroy, I didn’t want to give up even a couple hours during one of my weekends with John to visit the spa.
But last weekend, I gave in. And it was worth it, as all those built-up toxins were released from my tense muscles. As I drove away from the spa in John’s red truck, I was in a state of euphoria, the scent from the spa’s ginger and lilac soap wafting throughout the cab.
My bliss came to a crashing halt when I got smashed from behind in my first car accident.
All those toxins came rushing back, my shoulders and neck tensing up from a combination of fear, stress and whiplash. It was a brutally amazing experience to go from being so at ease and unwound to feeling, well, the opposite.
Maybe it was all some cosmic joke, and I was being punished for hoarding my Valentine’s present for so long, or maybe I just don’t deserve such utter relaxation. Either way, as I stood on the sidewalk waiting for the father of the misfortunate 18-year-old who hit me (John’s truck was largely unscathed), my thoughts turned to this Saturday and how it’s become so much more than an obligatory date or a perfect present.
Since our schedules keep us busier this year than last and the cost of airplane tickets adds up, I warned John not to expect anything extravagant from me this year. His response was, “Oh, do we have to do presents for Valentine’s Day?”
This sent off alarm bells in my head, not just because it’s a glaringly un-boyfriend-like response, but also because John loves to play dumb and swoop me off my feet at the last minute.
Then, Wednesday morning, as The Dispatch was being shipped to production, a delivery came in: three red roses in a glass vase with a beautiful red ribbon bow.
The card read, “To Lori, For our third Valentine’s Day. Thanks for sticking with me. I love you, John.”
This year, that’s all I need for Valentine’s Day.
Chocolates are always appreciated, but I’m not really one for jewelry, and massages just might be bad luck.
The meaning behind Valentine’s Day, more significant for me this year, is also simpler. Although roses sure do brighten up my desk, the card and its message of love will endure much longer.
