On Valentine’s Day

Walter and I have been married forty-one years. Yeah, long enough to have a hyphen between words. Valentine’s Day, birthdays, Christmas and anniversaries have been a dance through the years, and like anyone learning to dance, it was a little awkward at first.

Like the time early on, when he surprised me with a new weed-eater for my birthday.

Worst. Gift. Ever.

He’s so much better at these things, now.

What do you get for him? You ask.

I look for something useful, fun—something he wouldn’t rush out and buy for himself.

This year, I got him a new iPhone 6+. Don’t worry, he went with me to the Apple store yesterday and picked it out, so he already has it.

I paid.

Then we went to my favorite clothing store, and he bought a nice jacket for me that I picked out. I think that’s what I like best—that we go out together, and enjoy the look on each other’s faces when we get something we love.

We’ll have dinner twice this coming week—he’s buying Friday, I’m buying Saturday. We have reservations both days.

Back to Valentine’s Day, though, which is the subject of this post.

The other day, I went to the dentist. The hygienist (young and pretty) asked what I was doing for my husband for Valentine’s Day.

“I get him something useful,” popped right out of my mouth, with no other explanation.

“You mean like a weed-eater?” she asked, quite innocently.

I’m still laughing.