It’s that time of year again, when those of us with relationships inadvertently rub salt into the wounds of those without. If I hadn’t gotten into a relationship in 2002, right now I’d be blogging about how Valentine’s Day is a pig-ignorant holiday created by a greedy consortium of florists, chocolatiers, Hallmark, and prophylactic manufacturers. And, ok, it probably is. It’s gotten to the point where the holiday is a caricature of itself, subject to imagined scenes of stereotypical men forgetting the occasion or just being inept, tyrannical fembeasts demanding six dozen roses, diamond jewelry, and to go first.
Still and all, the day is, like Christmas, really what you make of it. Allison and I aren’t celebrating heavily, largely because her schedule is insane (she was originally booked from maybe 7 o’clock this morning to after 10 o’clock tonight), but I made reservations at a nice restaurant (courtesy of a doctor with some computer issues), and some other arrangements that I shouldn’t mention in case she reads this.
I should here, however, take the time to say a few words about her, because she is awesome, pulchritudinous, and a cornucopiæ of other effulgent adjectives that don’t immediately spring to mind.
Here she is at her Homecoming last fall, looking radiant: