Whenever Lori says, “Let’s not do anything special for Valentine’s,” I flinch.
I’m thinking: “Is this a test?” If I say, “Okay,” will she give me “the look,” that glance that says, “I’m so disappointed you are skipping this special day for us.”
A word of caution as Valentine’s Day draws nigh: don’t underestimate the potential impact of that question; how you respond to it can affect your love life.
That Valentine’s Day question and I have a deep and complicated history.
It started fine. I had Valentine’s gifts for all my little girlfriends when I was a kid. Dad, a dentist, kept a stash of adjustable rings for children to choose from after they had endured the pain of a tooth pulled or cavity filled.
This made Valentine’s easy for me: while Dad was putting in a crown here or a bridge there, I was rummaging through his drawer of trinkets reserved for kids. No one could compete with the wide assortment of rings I could give the girls. For several years I had a corner on the market for grade school Valentine’s gifts. I found myself riding a wave of popularity. Indeed, I was the veritable Valentine’s Gift King of Washington Elementary School, thanks to Dad’s pretend rings.
But by 6th grade Dad’s rings were out; they had run their course; girls no longer seemed interested in adjustable faux rings. A box of chocolates and a card for Dana was all my 6th-grade allowance could afford; Edna and I broke up not long after exchanging bracelets in 7th; Trish and I split up a few weeks before Valentine’s in 8th: I wonder now if I was avoiding the unspoken Valentine’s Day question, “How will you surprise me?” Perhaps fearing failure, I conveniently remained unattached during Valentine’s.
In my last year of high school, I again found myself searching for a Valentine’s gift. I scrutinized and examined every piece of jewelry in town within my price range and consulted my older brothers for advice before finally settling on a “drop” (1970s type of necklace) engraved with my initials, “DBW,” which I proudly presented to Lori. I succeeded that Valentine’s Day. She would lose the drop, but forty-nine years later, she still smiles when I mention it.
The problem with the Valentine’s statement, “Let’s not do anything for Valentine’s,” is that you can never be entirely sure. Sometimes the underlying message is: “I want to be surprised but want you to figure it out without me having to tell you because if I tell you, it won’t be the surprise I’m expecting you to surprise me with.”
But then again, it might simply be true: “Let’s not do anything special for Valentine’s.”
We can find direction in stories, and this one might help us. A little boy always helped his grandpa work around the garage. He would fetch this car tool, then that one. Eventually, Grandma asked the little guy, “What’s Grandpa paying you to work with him?” And you’ve got to love the little guy’s answer: “Grandpa pays me attention.”
That’s what’s behind the chocolates, a drop, an expensive ring, or flowers.
It’s the act of paying attention, of saying: “I care about you; I want to be where you are. And I want to do what pleases you.” You took time to get whatever it is you got for your love. It can be nothing more than a card, even a hand-made one. The point is, you’re saying: “I thought about you with this. I’m paying attention to you. I love you.”
So this Valentine’s Day, I’m going to give the gift that can never be lost and lasts forever: paying attention. We’re going out to eat somewhere special, just the two of us, and I’m going to look across the table, and whether I have a surprise gift or not, I’m going to gaze into my love’s eyes, and like a sixteen-year-old with an initialed drop in my hands, I’ll get lost in those eyes.
Paying attention.