I was 23 when we got engaged on Valentine’s Day of 2007. Nothing had ever been as shiny and beautiful as the ring he slid onto my finger. I spent days, weeks, months tilting my hand ever so slightly in the sunlight to watch that diamond — MY diamond! — sparkle and gleam.
Eleven years and two kids later, Valentine’s Day isn’t the dreamy champagne-and-flowers (and diamonds!) affair it once was.
There isn’t a fancy dinner by the glow of candlelight. My husband does shift work so he’s often working on the actual holiday. We’ve celebrated Valentine’s Day in the past by going out for dinner in March because that’s the first chance we’ve had, and that’s fine. (It’s never a “nice” restaurant, either — it’s a pub, because that’s what we like.)
Oh, and there definitely aren’t bouquets of flowers. Many Valentine’s Days ago, we learned that I’m very allergic. He had sweetly bought me a dozen red roses, and within minutes I was sneezing so badly we had to stick them outside on the balcony of our apartment. Doped up on Benadryl, I immediately went to bed and slept the holiday away. (My husband loves to tell this story, as he spent a very enjoyable night having beers and playing video games.)