From Sunday's Times and News-Star
And
now a moment of silence for the men who fumbled on Valentine’s Day. Been a long
week. Sort of like it was a long week for Napoleon after Waterloo.
This
is one of those penalties with no pre-determined time limit. The sun won’t
shine again until your mate decides to open the shutters, which depends a lot
on luck, the level of your apologetic sincerity, and even diet. Might want to
stock up on ice cream this week. And maybe vacuum.
We’ve
all been there.
But
there is hope! Remember: in only 50 short weeks you’ll have the chance to mess
up again.
Valentine’s
Day really is a tricky setup. We’re expected to play our hand like Valentino
when, every other day of the year, we’re nothing more than Jethro. Nor are we
expected to be. The unforgiving spotlight of romance is like a baseball when
you’re having a bad day fielding: it will find you no matter where you hide.
Open
mouth, insert excuse. “But honey, I …”
Famous
last words. If you fumble on Valentine’s Day, you’d better be in a coma or
passing a kidney stone. Otherwise, the jury can be harsh.
I
enjoyed this Valentine’s Day as much or more than any before, though in honesty
I was drawing from a very small sample set. Rarely have my gifts and cards and
flowers been up to par. But hey, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn.
Speaking
of, a friend of mine gave his wife of 50 years a card that scored big. Pictured
was a very nice squirrel handing a sack of acorns to another somewhat awed and
grateful squirrel. “My nuts are your nuts,” the card read. Nice…
He
followed that up with something in frilly flannel from the sale rack and,
boom!, winner winner chicken dinner. You can get away with being a tad tacky
when you’ve got a half-century of matrimonial air underneath you.
There
is a fine line we walk in this realm of gift giving. My friend Lil’ Tone toyed
with the idea of getting his wife some Gold Bond for Valentine’s Day. “You know
how women love gold,” he said. And they do. And they, like most any gender,
hate to chafe. Be that as it may, Gold Bond is not a good Valentine’s Day gift,
not unless you’re beloved is under house arrest and wearing a tight ankle
bracelet.
I
trusted Lil’ Tone last year, somewhat blindly, and got my Valentine Seasons 1
and 2 of “Downton Abby,” the surprise public television hit set in
class-divided England 90 years ago. What a delightful roll of the dice! Home
run! We watched both seasons in less than two weeks, then sweated it out until
January for Season 3, which ended Sunday night.
See,
you’ve got to watch the Brits. You’ve got to watch them every single second of
the day. Because what happened – and you Downton fans I exchange mail with know
what I’m talking about – is that the season we waited 10 months for was over in
two. I think it was eight episodes. Sunday’s finale ended with Matthew, who
didn’t sign a contract for Season 4, getting wiped off the pages of English
history. Lady Sybil didn’t sign for next year either so she, too, was axed.
Of
course, this was my fault. I gave a Valentine’s Day present that was the gift
that kept on giving -- but only until the disappointing season finale. At least
Gold Bond would have lasted longer.
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