I didn't plan on a gushy Valentine's post. Our nine-month anniversary is right around the corner, and I try and keep the sap level under control until the 19th of each month rolls around. (And then, of course, I let the cheese fly.) I actually had plans to instead share the story of how I spent Valentine's Day the year before I met Mike, and I'll still do that soon; it's a great story. It ends with my date saying the words, "I may call you, but I probably won't." (No. Really.)
But, well, I've changed my mind.
Yesterday our shower broke and I had to wash my hair in the bathroom sink. (All day I heard Fergie's "Glamorous" playing in my head as an ironic background song to our fancy situation.) My car is falling apart. It does this slow, clunking thing when I brake which makes me pray for green lights like never before. We're waiting ON PINS AND NEEDLES for word about this new house, but I have so many worries. I dream every night about getting it, not getting it, living on the street, living out of the clunky car. Months and months ago, when I thought I was pregnant, I dreamed about revealing the news to the Internet on Valentine's Day. I had this whole post worked up in my head in which I'd ramble on about the day I realized I wanted Mike to be the father of my baby. Now I fear that post will stay in draft from forever, never seeing the light of the publish button. I've recently discovered a friendship I valued is nearing its end for reasons I'll never be able to talk about. Reasons that make me sad and, what's worse, reasons that don't really surprise me.
Life, they say, is just one damn thing after another.
Mike fixed the shower last night, after I fell asleep. I awoke to a note taped to our shower curtain: "Be gentle with the hot water knob, baby. Happy Valentine's Day." Last night, after we left the hospital (visiting our newly born and beautiful nephew), we stopped at Taco Cabana for dinner and Mike hit a pot hole—HARD—in the parking lot. I think he braced himself for me to yell at him, but I said instead, "Sampson is not happy with you right now." And his eyes warmed and we laughed. When we see a Murano (our dream car of choice) one of us will usually say, "I think that Murano is mocking Sampson. What do you think?" and the other will respond with, "Definitely. Stupid Murano." Every time I voice one of my stupid, paranoid, negative thoughts on our house situation, Mike says what he always says, "It'll work out. It'll work out. It'll work out." And sometimes, if I look particularly pathetic, he'll kiss me to either make it that much better or to shut me right the hell up. When I was talking to Mike last night about the situation with my friend, he reminded me about my other friends and how incredible they are. He said, "You're lucky, baby. Focus on the good ones." Last night, leaving the hospital, we tried to get our parking ticket validated and the security guard (who quite obviously didn't enjoy her work) pushed a sign in front of our eyes and said, "WE DON'T VALIDATE. SIGN'S POSTED." Mike said to her, "Well, then. If the sign's posted." And for the rest of the night, we'd fall over ourselves saying, "Sign's posted!" "Baby, is this the exit?" "SIGN'S POSTED." "Where do you want to stop for dinner?" "SIGN'S POSTED."
When we got home last night, we snuggled into bed and Mike said he'd watch whatever show I wanted if I scratched his back. So I did, and we watched One Tree Hill, a show Mike has never watched a minute of in the five years it's been on the air. I had to catch him up to speed and that wasn't too difficult: "See that girl? That's Brooke. We love her. See that other one, with the ridiculous torn tank and stupid curly hair? That's Peyton. We hate her. She's a whore." "She's not even cute." "WHO?" "The one we think is a whore." "Baby, I just fell in love with you all over again."
(Side note: Brooke? He loved you once! It hasn't always been about him and Peyton, even if the writers so DESPERATELY want to shove their "True Love Always" crap down our throats. Do you NOT remember the time on the beach? The time in the rain? When he gave you his room? When he said he'd never let you go again?)
Mike and I rewind Sonic commercials to watch them three, four, 15 times. We sign all of our e-mails "LVS" because ages ago, when we used to sign them "loves," he accidentally left off the "O" and the "E" one day, and I found it incredibly hilarious—that loves forgot to buy its vowels—so LVS it became. It's engraved on my wedding band. We give our dog, our Build-A-Bear, our car, our TiVo their own thoughts. In fact, we give voices to practically every inanimate object we come across. When I see a preview for the 27th season of Smallville and question HOW ON EARTH that show keeps making it past CW execs and Veronica Mars couldn't, he'll say, "I know, baby. I know." We travel well together. We laugh together. When we fight—and we fight—we always make up in time for me to sleep on his stomach. Every now and again he'll tell me something I should blog about—he'll say, "I thought of a gripping post idea for you." And, yes, he actually does use the word gripping. I kiss him goodbye each morning, even when he's still asleep. He'll e-mail me sometimes and say, "I don't remember you kissing me goodbye. Did you?" And I'll say, "Yes, love." What I don't say is I watched him sleep for a few moments before I left, right after I kissed him. I don't say I'd rather be late to work—I'd rather be late to life—than miss those moments.
Four years ago he gave me a dozen of my favorite flower—a lavender rose—on our first Valentine's together. The card said, "To my Valentine. Let's keep this tradition going." That was a month after our first date.
Life, I say, it's just one beautiful damn thing after another.
