So I am sitting here on my bed, fully jammied (or in my pajamas for those of you unfamiliar with the tots adorbs Kozak-Wilks vernacular), laptop appropriately perched on lap, sipping a cup of early gray tea with milk (because I am feeling decadent), catching glimpses and sounds of season one of Lost as part of Moses' experiment to see if the beginning of the show is really as good as he remembers it being--before it all went to hell in a poorly woven hand basket, according to him. (But I wouldn't know because I've never seen it. Don't let the 2004 version of yourself judge me too harshly.) Maybe in an hour or two, Mose and I will watch some Law and Order SVU before we turn in the for the evening. Because we crazy like that.
And at this moment, I am feeling relatively content. Nothing has really changed from when I blogged last: work is still stressful, my to-do list is epically long, I still have this weird bump on my neck near my jaw (probably cancer)--I didn't post about that last time because...bigger fish--and yet, somehow, I'm sort of doing okay. I seem to have reached an impasse at some point last week and have been steadily sliding into apathy ever since. First chill--then Stupor--then the letting go--, I suppose. But with considerably more stress induced heartburn beforehand...
Anyways, I don't want to dwell on this or to just rehash everything I said last week but before shifting gears entirely, I want to document one thing. Perhaps it's because I have had so little control over my workload or over how much I can get done in day at my job but I have been cu-Razy productive at home. Even if I don't get back until 7 or 8PM, I still exercise, make dinner, do the dishes, and clean up around the apartment. So clearly, by cu-Razy productive, I mean doing passable amounts of housework. But it still makes me feel like Popeye after downing some canned spinach. [Insert gif from imagination here.]
Why I couldn't have inherited my Polish grandmother's diligence for domestic work instead of her compulsion to feed people I'll never know...she even used to iron underwear. When my mother discovered this while doing her and my Dad's laundry at my grandparents house when my parents were first married, she said she knew right then and there that she would never be able to compete.
So. Onto the next unrelated topic: Valentine's Day. It's...not a big thing in our household. (Shocker, I know.) I don't wage campaigns against it in the name of cultural subversion the way that some people do but I also don't really care about it. The thing I find loveliest about Valentine's day is that it helps me remember Moses' and my anniversary. Valentine's day is our six month anniversary and August 14th (not the 15th, not the 15th, not the 15th) is our year anniversary.
The first Valentine's Day/six month anniversary that Moses and I shared set something of a dubious precedent for all future Valentine's days. But nowhere to go but up, you say? Fine. Be my guest. Pollyanna your way up and down this story, just let me tell it first.
Moses was busy that Valentine's day because he was pledging a fraternity at the time (GASP! Yes, I know) and had to spend the evening going around to the different sorority houses caroling "You've Lost that Loving Feeling."
Pause for reaction.
This was back in those guileless days before I had entirely abandoned the idea of celebrating special events on their actual date. So although we planned on just celebrating that weekend; it was my first Valentine's day with him and (at the time) a significant relationship milestone (6 months then tied my longest relationship). We had already said I love you, I was already starting to suspect that this was going to be a life long thing, and after a long day of class and work, I decided that I didn't want to wait until Saturday; I wanted to see him, even if only for five minutes to share some chocolate together. So after my last class got out, I walked to the local bakery and bought a mini-heart shaped flourless chocolate cake. Gross, I know but I was young and in love, so whatever. I surprised him by showing up on his doorstep, bearing the cake in its recyclable container (because that's how Ithaca rolls) and two forks mere moments before he was about to leave for his night of off-key serenading.
He was apologetic about not being able to spend the evening together, I was resentful that he was ditching me for something so stupid as his stupid pledge event. We sat at the kitchen table with a toaster oven between us, sharing in silence the heart shaped cake that I had meant as such a romantic gesture.
Now I find this story incredibly amusing, endearing even. After nine and a half years together, it seems laughable to think that there was ever a time we felt awkward or unsure around each other.
But that first Valentine's day I learned an important lesson. Never again did I expect anything remotely special.
And I haven't been disappointed since.
Moses even brought me flowers last Valentine's day and I was so surprised and delighted--I felt positively giddy filling a vase with water for them. Moses thinks this reflects poorly on him. It does. (Just kidding.)
This year, we have our standard romantic plan in place: cook dinner together, drink old fashions, and watch movies. Predictable but perfect. And there's a 98% chance that at least one of us will be jammied for most, if not all of the evening. Does that makes us lame? Probably. But we are old and in love, so whatever.