At the time of our first Valentine’s Day together, Mark and I had been dating exactly six months and one week, which was basically a relationship record for both of us. I think we knew by that point we had something special, and with youthful, starry eyes we let ourselves get swept into the expectations of the day, roses and fancy dinners and all.
But, it turns out, we each had a different idea of what a romantic Valentine’s Day would entail. Mark made reservations for us at a little wine bistro in my Missouri college town that I’d never been to. Sure, I thought that sounded nice, but a part of me selfishly wanted something bigger and more extravagant—I blame that on my youthful naivete.
So on the evening of Valentine’s Day, after Mark had driven four hours from his college to come visit me, I convinced him that it’d be an even better idea to cancel our bistro reservations, drive another hour and a half to the Ozarks, and go to dinner at a beautiful steak and seafood restaurant on a bluff overlooking the lake.
Sans reservations. On Valentine’s Day.
For some reason, I had it in my head that this part of the Ozarks was a summer spot and this beautiful restaurant would magically be devoid of people, even on a major holiday.
Unsurprising plot twist: The restaurant was packed.
I slunk back to the car, metaphorical tail between my legs. I felt ridiculous the entire drive, and must have apologized two dozen times. By the time we got back to Columbia around 9pm, the hangries were beginning to set in, and I was panicking about where we could eat. In the previous four hours, I’d gone from believing that I could walk into a fine dining restaurant and get seated on Valentine’s Day to wondering if you needed reservations at McDonald’s on Valentine’s Day.
The day ended with us eating Chinese takeout straight from the styrofoam cartons, and falling asleep on the floor while watching O Brother Where Art Thou?, a movie I still have yet to see all the way through.
And in that ridiculous day, a tradition was born. No, not of me being incredibly high-maintenance and short-sighted. Now, each Valentine’s Day we celebrate with takeout and spending time together at home. It’s not unique, and it’s certainly not grand. In fact, we probably do the exact same thing at least once a month.
But on Valentine’s Day, when so many other couples are fancied up and doing their best to create a romantic evening, our takeout tradition is a perfect reminder—especially after 11 years together—that love is not about the grand gestures, but in the everyday moments.
In the Post-It love notes Mark leaves on my computer. The back and head rubs. The way we put up with what the other wants to watch on TV. The Dutch Baby pancake we make together each Sunday morning. How Mark always wants to hold my hand, even when they’re sweaty. How he texts me pictures anytime he meets other people’s cats. When he tells me he thinks I’m a good writer. This home that we're creating together. How grateful we both are that we have someone whom we enjoy doing absolutely nothing with.
This everyday love means more to me and makes me feel more special than any sparkly, expensive, extravagant display-of-affection possibly could.
I'm glad I ruined Valentine's Day.
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