(Otherwise known as: I Better Get To The Card Store And See What’s Left.)
I know. Who cares about this over hyped “event” days after it was mercifully killed off only to rise again next year like a zombie or a Jesus?
Well, I care.
I never was all that good at Valentines Day (or Valentine’s Day for you fans of saints). You know those people who wait until the last minute go buy cards, candy or gifts? Those are the people *I* usually run into coming OUT of the store as I creep in. Apparently, I celebrate a sort of Post-Valentines Day. Too bad none of the women in my life ever did.
When I first get into the store on a Post-Valentines Day shopping foray, I never seem to notice the apocalypse in the card and gift sections. At least at first. I am usually too busy thinking about my lame explanation for this year’s tardiness. But then I look around. I find that, on average, there are about 6 different cards left in the “Wife” or “Sweetheart” or “Object Of My Stalking” sections. And approximately 5 envelopes, although NONE of them are the proper size for the remaining cards, naturally.
And what about those cards? Typically, they are of the “humorous” variety (with no limit to the amount of quotes I can put around that word), complete with awful double-entendres and/or references to advanced age. I can only assume that these are written and designed by those employees on their way to the unemployment line. Or their 16-year-old sons.
So what I try to is find the least heinous among them. Greeting Card damage control, so to speak. “Maybe a little white-out and glitter over the word “Booty” would do the trick,” I convince myself. I then pick out an envelope that is only 50% larger than the card. “A good card needs room the breathe,” I say to the aghast female employee watching me make a mockery of romance.
Then it’s off to the gift section to find the perfect companion to my heartfelt thoughts, courtesy of Hallmark’s™ Yuk-Yuk division of course. Chocolate is particularly cheap during this time of the year, if you can find a box that has not been opened and sampled (that’s why they call it a “sampler”, right?). I spot one that advertises the benefits of its tuna-flavored candies and clearly can appreciate the infusion of Omega-3 fatty acids. But will she?
Probably not. So I go with a more conventional assortment and hope that none contain the nuts to which she is so allergic (what were their names again?).
As I leave the store, I skip a little on my way back home, scaring more than one senior citizen I pass on the sidewalk. For the next 5 or 6 minutes I delude myself into thinking I did something my sweetie will remember for a lifetime.
And I’m right. I just don’t know just how right I am.