Today is Valentine’s Day, and also my six-month wedding anniversary.
It started off pretty crappily.
I came home cranky and tired after squirming in traffic for an hour and a half. I stood in the doorway and pouted. “I’m unhappy,” I proclaimed.
Matt stood up from the kitchen table, where he was doing some work. He walked over and gave me a hug.
“Tell me,” he said.
“I drive 500 miles a week and gas is going up to $4 a gallon.”
“Uh huh …”
“And I missed the Grammys because I had to work.”
“Uh huh ….”
“And my friends all went sledding this weekend and it looked really fun on Facebook.”
Matt held me close and whispered in my ear: “White girl problems.”
He proceeded to remind me that my life isn’t bad, that we’re actually so lucky, then I said something ridiculous like, “Well, I guess compared to Egypt.” I’ve been listening to a lot of NPR lately so I brought up Obama’s new budget, too, but that conversation fizzled quickly. Thank God.
We went to get pho, my very, very favorite, and drew hearts with Sriracha in our bowls. You know, for Valentine’s Day. We talked about how Valentine’s dinners are so stupid—you spend all this money to have this lavish five-course meal, and afterward, the last thing you’re in the mood for is lovin’. Instead, you just want to unbutton your pants and moan in discomfort.
Matt told me he had already secretly unbuttoned his pants because he was getting too full. I laughed and said, “Being married is so much fun.”
We went home and held hands while watching How I Met Your Mother in bed. We kissed a little and talked in each other’s mouths (try it!). Now Matt is snoring, loudly as usual. It was sort of a perfect Valentine’s Day when I think about it.
Photo by Raya Carlisle