Et tu, Cupid?

Here, dear reader, is why I hate Valentine's Day. 

It is a totally commercialized holiday, fraught with expectation that has nothing to do with our actual desires.  (Or everything to do with them, but all rolled into one artificial day.)

It's a stupid insult to single folk everywhere who are somehow made to feel inadequate even though everyone pretty much universally dislikes the holiday, except restaurateurs, who can charge a ridiculous price for a mediocre bottle of champagne and a fixe menu. 

But it is certainly most insulting to otherwise happily married folk who would like to think that they are far beyond all petty show of romance, but who nonetheless find it stings incredibly to come up totally empty-handed on this most crass of days.

Aye. There's the rub.

Years ago I graciously let my husband off the hook for every holiday-related duty with the exception of the following three responsibilities: a card on my birthday, a card on my anniversary and a card on Valentine's Day.

Saying goodbye to gifts was not difficult.  Money is tight, and Valentine's Day is superficial.  I always hated the "office competition," where bouquet after overpriced bouquet of generic roses is delivered, each one providing a sort of stamp of approval for the recipient and leaving those with empty desks squirming.  (Only I didn't squirm.  I was fine opting out.) 

But - - and let this be a lesson to women everywhere - - where has this lowering of expectation gotten me?  Well, for the past several years, it has resulted in a need for constant reminders that such-and-such a date is approaching, and that a card is expected.  (Wow.  Romantic, huh?) 

And this year, despite (annoying) reminders earlier in the week, it netted me zip. 

We were quite busy this week and weekend, to be sure.  But I ask you: If he can manage 300-odd sales employees, create breathtaking excel spreadsheets, and handle his big boy calendar chock full of business travel... why can't he manage this one small thing? 

I can hear him grousing: "Why does it matter so much anyway?  It's a stupid card, and a stupid day." 

Why does it matter to me?  He's a great dad.  He's very loving, in the squeeze-my-rump-while-I'm-doing-the-dishes sort of way.  He sometimes takes out the garbage without being told.  He works hard and helps support us all.  He even volunteers the occassional ice cream run when I'm having a craving. 

That's a lovely list of attributes, and they add up to a guy I'm very grateful for.  But the sad truth is that there's nothing romantic in my life, unless you count those damn Sookie Stackhouse novels.  And I don't see a sexy, thousand-year-old vampire tapping on my window anytime soon.

And while I know my husband loves me a lot, he definitely doesn't say it enough, and not nearly in a flowery enough way.  So it seems crazy to me that, efficient fellow that he generally is, he doesn't take advantage of the fact that Hallmark has basically done all the hard stuff for him.  All he has to do is shell out the four bucks and read enough of the card to make sure it's not tastelessly humorous.

You know how guys feel about constantly being the only one to initiate sex?  That's how I feel about romance.  (You'd think he would see the obvious connection between those two things, but trust me, he doesn't.)  I hate that I've been reduced to the kind of romantic peer pressure that only a national holiday can inflict. 

And even that doesn't seem to be working.