It’s Valentine’s Day. A day that has always felt to me like a made up “holiday” so greeting card companies and flower and chocolate sales can get their annual boost. But it’s also a day a massacre was named after, so there you go.
I met Wil on New Years’ Eve of 1995 (I wrote that story here about 6 weeks ago. If you missed it, you can go look. It’s ok, I’ll wait. Done? Ok, good.) We spent pretty much all of our free time together for the first 6 weeks after we met, but had never gone on a date just the two of us. I wasn’t about to have Valentine’s Day be the first official date because it felt like too much pressure to give the perfect gift. (For the record, our first official date was February 17th because by that time, the pressure was off.) After surviving our first fake holiday together, we vowed never to get each other anything for Valentine’s Day.
Today, I am breaking that vow. For years, Wil has talked about wanting to get a tattoo. He’s been trying to figure out the one thing that he’ll want with him forever, but also something that’s small in case he can’t handle the pain of getting a tattoo. He finally decided on the one thing he always wants with him. It’s my heartbeat.
Yesterday, I stopped by my doctors’ office and picked up my EKG printout from my recent physical. The receptionist asked if I needed the printout for another doctor. I told her no, it was a gift for my husband. She looked confused, so I explained that I was breaking the “no gifts on Valentine’s Day” rule we have. This year, I’m giving my husband my heart in a totally nerdy way. It’s a gift more valuable than anything in a store, and a gift I know he already loves.