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Valentine's Day
Feb. 14th, 2006 12:39 pmI would say that I don't observe Valentine's Day, but only the cloistered hermit could avoid noticing such an important commercial event in the United States. Look! A day in mid-winter in celebration of which many, many people can be persuaded to spend money! Woohoo!
There is no novel way in which to say that, although my spouse and I do not give each other lavish gifts on this (or indeed any other) day, we love each other dearly. Nor is there any way in which to say this that does not sound defensive, snobbish, and downright crotchety. All right: I'm defensive, snobbish, unoriginal, and downright crotchety.
On Valentine's Day, I tend to think about men I didn't marry rather than the one I did. I mean, he's here all the time. I can and do adore him without heroic effort. I sleep with him every single night, and I'm very happy to do so. Imagine us as modern-day Ozzie and Harriet, minus the jazz band and the television show, substituting his two daughters for their two sons, inserting two previous marriages into Glenn's past and a statistically high number of serious other relationships into my past. Now subtract most of the situations of the 50s situation comedy and replace them with the situations that hit the cutting-room floor of the modern situation comedy. Now unfold the origami, carefully avoiding tearing any of the creases. You may have to tease out the tyrannosaur's front legs with a straight pin or perhaps a toothpick, but it's worth the effort to retain the detail.
Those other men, the ones I didn't marry, aren't here. I see some of them frequently; others, I know I'll never see again. They're all men I knew before I was thirty, when I fell in love with Glenn, and I am fifty now, middle-aged and staid as well as defensive, snobbish, unoriginal, and downright crotchety. I was mistaken about many of them in some essential way, or mistaken about myself in relation to each particular man as I loved him, and I can think about those romantic errors now and shake my head. Wouldn't ever have worked; how could I have been such a fool, over and over? But I did love them, and I can still see the qualities I treasured, stripped of most of the illusions I had about them then.
Then there are those few others, whom I did see clearly, and about whom I wasn't mistaken back in my youth. Bad timing, lost addresses, timidity when boldness was required, boldness when waiting a bit would have been a better idea; the details of what went wrong are important only to me and perhaps to them. I loved them, as well, and I love them still. Am I simply still possessed of old illusions about them? They are mine to cherish, those illusions, and I'll keep them.
There is no novel way in which to say that, although my spouse and I do not give each other lavish gifts on this (or indeed any other) day, we love each other dearly. Nor is there any way in which to say this that does not sound defensive, snobbish, and downright crotchety. All right: I'm defensive, snobbish, unoriginal, and downright crotchety.
On Valentine's Day, I tend to think about men I didn't marry rather than the one I did. I mean, he's here all the time. I can and do adore him without heroic effort. I sleep with him every single night, and I'm very happy to do so. Imagine us as modern-day Ozzie and Harriet, minus the jazz band and the television show, substituting his two daughters for their two sons, inserting two previous marriages into Glenn's past and a statistically high number of serious other relationships into my past. Now subtract most of the situations of the 50s situation comedy and replace them with the situations that hit the cutting-room floor of the modern situation comedy. Now unfold the origami, carefully avoiding tearing any of the creases. You may have to tease out the tyrannosaur's front legs with a straight pin or perhaps a toothpick, but it's worth the effort to retain the detail.
Those other men, the ones I didn't marry, aren't here. I see some of them frequently; others, I know I'll never see again. They're all men I knew before I was thirty, when I fell in love with Glenn, and I am fifty now, middle-aged and staid as well as defensive, snobbish, unoriginal, and downright crotchety. I was mistaken about many of them in some essential way, or mistaken about myself in relation to each particular man as I loved him, and I can think about those romantic errors now and shake my head. Wouldn't ever have worked; how could I have been such a fool, over and over? But I did love them, and I can still see the qualities I treasured, stripped of most of the illusions I had about them then.
Then there are those few others, whom I did see clearly, and about whom I wasn't mistaken back in my youth. Bad timing, lost addresses, timidity when boldness was required, boldness when waiting a bit would have been a better idea; the details of what went wrong are important only to me and perhaps to them. I loved them, as well, and I love them still. Am I simply still possessed of old illusions about them? They are mine to cherish, those illusions, and I'll keep them.
