It's Valentine's Day. I suppose there must be many blog entries floating around the Intarweb today denouncing the day as utter trash. I am much inclined to agree with all of you. I don't like that huge companies have comandeered gift- and sentiment-giving that should happen spontaneously because people like and love each other, and that they have squashed it into one small period of time in which we feel we must either fulfill the expectations of this arbitrary day or at least comment on them. In acknowledging that the day affects you at all is a sign of giving in, I think.
At any rate, seeing as I have already given in by writing that last paragraph, I shall completely capitulate and give in some more.
It is Valentine's Day, and all I have to look forward to within this twenty-four-hour period is finishing up my work day and then cleaning the apartment from top to bottom, or at least as much of what's in between its top and bottom that I can get to. Am I complaining about this, though? No, not one bit.
You see, the Fiery One is arriving home from his work trip of two weeks' length just after midnight tonight, and I want him to come home to a clean apartment. This effort to clean up my living space would shock and amaze most of my friends and family who have ever had the dubious honour of witnessing the conditions in which I am occasionally willing to live.
I'm not complaining about my Valentines's Day being mostly filled with chores I normally avoid like stink bombs, because truly, and cover your ears if you are made easily nauseous, they will be an act of love. I used to think that nothing could ever induce me to clean the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, and do laundry all in the same day, but then I did not know the power of the Fiery One.
When he arrives home, weary and lugging his suitcase behind him up the stairs in the early, early morning hours of tomorrow, dark travelling circles hollowing his eyes and a rumpled shirt hanging askew under his coat, there will be nothing more divine than crawling between fresh sheets under a blanket straight from the dryer. In the morning, he will be the first to use our new Turkish cotton bath towels and shower in a bathtub gleaming white from today's scrubbing. Our morning coffee will be made with water run through a fresh water filter. There will be nothing to distract us from each other on Tuesday, which I took off work so that we could spend the day together. Not even errant bird seeds will be getting stuck to our feet and wedging themselves between our toes.
As much as I am not so excited about the commercialism of romance, something in me this year is fluttering at the anticipation of making the effort to show him my love on this greeting-card day. Maybe it has something to do with his having been gone for the previous two weeks. Maybe I'm getting softer with age. I like to think that I'm just using this day as an excuse to say YES! again: yes again to our love, yes again to our deep friendship, yes again to my lover, yes again to our lives together, yes, yes, yes, yes, oh yes. I throw up my arms in surrender, because yes! is sometimes all I have to offer him.
Because I spent years feeling alone.
Because I was lost until I found us together.
Because we believe in each other.
Because the world became a new place when we stepped into our lives together.
Because I did not know how much I could love until we were two.
I love you, Fiery One. Welcome home.
All, except the Fiery One, have my express permission to puke now. I promise that after this post I will resume my regularly scheduled programming.