Back when P and I started dating, he wasn’t exactly a ladies man. I mean, not that he’s a ladies man now, but I think it’s safe to say that after ten years of being married to me, he understands women a little bit better than he did before.
BBM (Before Big Mama), P would have been content to live on a ranch somewhere with his vast gun collection and perhaps a bag of Cheetos. In fact, for the first six months we dated he broke up with me everytime I cried because he was sure it meant I had some kind of mental instability.
And if you’re a woman (which, let’s be honest, I’m betting I don’t have a ton of male readers) you can do the math and know that six months of dating means I cried at least six times. Once every month. I blame the hormones.
My point is P was headed straight for bachelorhood and multiple gun safes filled to the brim to keep him warm at night.
But then I came along and reeled him in with enough charm and feminine wiles to overrule my emotional instability. He honestly told me one time that he didn’t know girls cried.
Then he met me.
And now he has a daughter, which is proof that God has a tremendous sense of humor.
I realized I was dating a true Casanova when our first February together rolled around and I was secretly, anxiously awaiting my first Valentine’s Day present from the man I was sure I was going to marry. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to think it might even be an engagement ring!
My bubble was burst when P asked me on February 13th when Valentine’s Day was and did it fall on the second Tuesday in February? I guess he thought it was like Easter or Thanksgiving, as opposed to a holiday made up by the greeting card industry.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize he probably hadn’t done any diamond shopping. Oh, but he did have time to go pick out a giant-sized tin of caramel popcorn.
I cried. And, of course, we broke up due to my emotional instability and lack of appreciation for caramel-coated popcorn in quantities large enough to feed my entire apartment complex.
The other night, P and I were watching T.V., although I can’t for the life of me remember what we were watching since NOTHING is the only thing that’s on right now. But we sit and watch anyway because otherwise we might pick up a book and read or something.
A Valentine’s Day commercial came on. Y’all know what I’m talking about, the ads that are targeted to people who apparently have vast amounts of disposable income to spend on diamonds to remind her you’ll love her today, tomorrow and forever.
P reminds me he’ll love me today, tomorrow and forever by taking out the trash and working to support me in the style to which I’ve grown accustomed. It’s much more practical.
He looked at me and said, “When’s Valentine’s Day?”
I said, “The second Tuesday in February.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right.”
“No. No it’s not. It’s February 14th!” I said, as I sighed and rolled my eyes.
“Why did you roll your eyes?”
“Because we’ve had this conversation every February for the last 13 years.”
“What does it matter what day it falls on? Being married to me is like having Valentine’s every day.”
Who can argue with that?
I just hope he doesn’t forget to order my industrial-sized tin of popcorn.