UPDATE: I’ve gone through and fixed a couple things now that my computer isn’t screaming at me about needing to restart.

It’s that time of year when the cloying aroma of love permeates the air, and otherwise happy enough people become obsessed with trying to plan the perfect romantic encounter. Ultimately, everything goes sideways, as someone takes too long getting ready, thereby causing the couple to miss their dinner reservation, or someone else just can’t hide the look of disappointment at the news he’s going dancing. We’re all so worried about getting everything right, that we usually never do. I’ve never been so let down as when I’ve tried to set up the perfect evening, and usually my wife and I need at least a week or two get back on speaking terms. It’s not that we don’t like romance, or going out for a fancy evening on the town, but after a week of all the downsides of the adult world of which no one warned us, the last thing we want to do is take another shower, get all pretty, put on our Sunday best, and spend at least an hour just getting to where we’re going. Speaking for myself, at least, the most romantic thing that my wife could do for me is set our son up on the couch, slip into something more comfortable (like sweatpants and one of my Doctor Who T-Shirts), and snuggle up against as we settle down for a full night of uninterrupted sleep. I’m getting seriously excited just thinking about it.

For most occasions, my wife has let me know that she doesn’t want us wasting money on things for each other that we don’t need. This gift prohibition applies to Christmas, Birthdays and our Anniversary. But the most forbidden holiday of all is Valentine’s. True to her word, I’ve yet to get a present from her on any of these occasions, but I myself am unwilling to take the chance that it’s still just some sort of clever ploy, and spend at least tens of dollars on her. She protests that I shouldn’t have, and that I am wasting what little money that we don’t have, but I always notice when she wears her jewelry, or sprays on her perfume, and on those very special days, when puts on those really sexy boots with the buckles and the zipper. What can I say? I’m still a hopeless romantic poet in the body of a curmudgeon, and despite her protestations, I know that she likes the little quantitative displays of affection. I don’t know that I need a certain moment to tell her that I love her, as that’s not something that I ever feel peer-pressured into telling her. As a matter of fact, I imagine that she’s grown a little tired of me telling her so many times, but I can’t bring myself to tell her any less. Love is what love is and anything that I can do to bring a smile back to her face is more than enough for me.

When we first got together, it seemed like something to help us pass the time. I was somewhat prettier back then (with a tiny bit more hair upon my noggin), and coming out of an unsuccessful attempt at a relationship with someone else, and she was working two jobs and living with her brother and for some reason, interested in me. On our first date, I told her everything that’s wrong with me, trying to take heed of lessons I’d spent a decade trying to ignore, and in return (I found out later), she thought that I was trying out some hitherto unknown form of gringo flirting. We usually got together a couple times a week and drank horchatas and washed my laundry (what can I say? I know how to show the ladies the best of times), while I attempted to show off my burgeoning bilingualism and mad poetry skills. I was aiming for Pablo Neruda, but probably ended up closer to a Spanish Edgar Guest. But something in my mangled words or bitter humor won her over (or at least convinced her that I was the lesser of two evils), and she agreed to split expenses and find a place where we could shack up with one another. It wasn’t the grand romance that either of us sought, but it was better than just looking for a roommate, and it was only supposed to be a temporary thing, as what we had wasn’t really love, just similar enough interests for the time being.

And then someone came into our lives, and we had to take a long, hard look at one another. She told me I could leave, no strings attached, and I countered with how I grew up without a dad. We argued back and forth for three quarters of year, and then time was up, and our decision had been made for us. I’m not saying that our baby boy fixed everything between us, but with the option of a quick escape retired, we came to look for better reasons to stay with one another beyond the obligations of shared parenthood. It was a year after the birth of our son that I came to realize that I might love her. On her birthday that year, she gave me the ultimatum. It wasn’t how I’d imagined that some liberated lady might propose to me, but she made me realize that I’d been dodging the question like there was a war on. And yet once more, she gave me a way out, told me that we’d still be friends, and that I’d have as much time as I’d like to spend with only son. So, in a moment of either pure bravery, or terror in the face of change, I told her yes, and we set a date for sometime around St. Patrick’s Day.

We were married on the thirteenth day of March (a Friday, as I recall) in a civil ceremony at the Oakland courthouse. My best friend and his brother came, as well as my mother and grandmother. Even my step daughter was in attendance, although she had no interest in participating. I was nervous and excited and coming to understand that the butterflies saved themselves for this day and this moment with her. It took until my wedding day to realize that I was head over heels in love with my wife. Every day I find I love her more and more, and am less able to imagine a world in which we are not together. We argue, we push each other’s buttons, and we say things we find quite difficult to walk back. And yet I still melt every time I make her smile, and she hasn’t killed me yet. I  wish that I had several million dollars so that I give her everything that riches can provide, but the only things that I have to offer are my unfaltering love and a rambling way of writing.

-Tex

(Gosh this room sure got dusty all of a sudden)