We were big into boneless chicken breasts then, and every night he’d set the table with a knife and a fork for both of us. And every night I’d cut my chicken with the side of my fork and put away the clean knife. Until the day he didn’t set out a knife for me.
I know it doesn’t sound like much. It surely doesn’t sound romantic. In fact, it sounds a bit odd. But I swooned. My husband had paid attention. He had noticed me. He had noticed, and acted on, one of my silly little quirks.
We’re told that Valentine’s Day is about chocolate and cards and flowers. But for me, romance is about paying attention. Romance isn’t a day of pampering. It’s a lifetime of vigilance. Of diligence. Of hawk-like caring. Oh, yeah…romance is work.
Sixteen years later, my husband has added countless other seemingly not romantic things to the list of things he does ~ or doesn’t do ~ for me. I try to do the same for him. I always say, love as a feeling is pretty worthless. Love is something we do. An action. Love is a verb.
To the man who always notices me (and who didn’t get me a card this year, even though he knows I like cards since I wrote this post last year. It’s ok, though, as he’s currently shoveling the driveway for me.), I wish a very happy Valentine’s Day!
To everyone, I wish a wonderful Valentine’s Day and a lifetime of romance, however it is that you define it.