Sebastien and I have never celebrated Valentine’s Day. The first year we were together, about a week before the commercial occasion, we were sitting in his room talking. I didn’t know what kind of a man he was at the time. I had an idea, but it was still early in the relationship so I just wasn’t sure if he enjoyed engaging in scheduled acts of commercialism to say I love you. I knew I didn’t. so I had to let him know as gently as possible.
“If you get me anything for Valentine’s Day I’ll spit in your face,” I said.
His eyes lit up. “Oh good,” he said. “I was starting to freak out about how to handle it.”
It’s been that way ever since.
But this year, that all changed. Not because I had some sort of spiritual awakening or because we are married and thus have to get into the habit of only sharing our love for one another when the candy and card industry tell us to. No, I wanted to celebrate Valentine’s Day this year because I heard I could reserve a table for a fancy dinner at White Castle.
White Castle. The place where junkies go to shoot up in the bathroom and punk teenagers gorge on miniature cheeseburgers before skateboarding around parking garage at the mall. Oh, how I wanted to revel in such public mockery.
But alas, Sebastien takes my convictions pretty seriously and vetoed the idea. I suppose it’s for the best. At least my dad will send me a card with $10 in it.