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Feb. 13th, 2014 09:54 pm
sentiMental
Well, so much for getting Up this weekend. I was so anxious to get into the office before my new student hire (who ended up being fifteen minutes late due to a boot on his car) that I completely forgot to drop the DVD in the mail. Now it won't be picked up before tomorrow afternoon which means no flick before Monday at the earliest. Maybe we can cuddle watching Così fan tutte instead. That's romantic, right?
To be honest, I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do for the Old Man tomorrow. I've got managerial training all day, so slipping out to pick something up is probably not in the cards. I find it hard to get motivated by the usual suspects anyway. Chocolates? There's more than enough sweets in the house as it is. Flowers? We still have live narcissus and (amazingly) azaleas. Books? That's the last thing we need; he's turned to pillaging my old stash. (Right now he's reading Always coming home, a book which I'd coveted since I was a teenager, finally bought last year, and then haven't really looked at since.)
Not that either of us go for dramatic displays of affection any more anyway. Maybe we've just fully internalised them. At least a couple times every day, I look at him and my heart swells with emotion such that I just want to crush him in my arms. Sometimes I think of telling him so, but even as the words are forming in my head, I'm appalled at their cheesiness. Half the time he's sound asleep anyway. (He never looks at me when I'm sleeping. I look at him all the time.)
That's the problem with gifts, really; the most extravagant ones imaginable would still feel cheap compared to the value of what he's brought to my life. It's the same problem I run into with my mother. What's a silk robe or a spa day compared to twenty years of doing everything make me comfortable and content? What's left to me except to look at him with love and hope he reads it all in my eyes?
To be honest, I'm kind of at a loss as to what to do for the Old Man tomorrow. I've got managerial training all day, so slipping out to pick something up is probably not in the cards. I find it hard to get motivated by the usual suspects anyway. Chocolates? There's more than enough sweets in the house as it is. Flowers? We still have live narcissus and (amazingly) azaleas. Books? That's the last thing we need; he's turned to pillaging my old stash. (Right now he's reading Always coming home, a book which I'd coveted since I was a teenager, finally bought last year, and then haven't really looked at since.)
Not that either of us go for dramatic displays of affection any more anyway. Maybe we've just fully internalised them. At least a couple times every day, I look at him and my heart swells with emotion such that I just want to crush him in my arms. Sometimes I think of telling him so, but even as the words are forming in my head, I'm appalled at their cheesiness. Half the time he's sound asleep anyway. (He never looks at me when I'm sleeping. I look at him all the time.)
That's the problem with gifts, really; the most extravagant ones imaginable would still feel cheap compared to the value of what he's brought to my life. It's the same problem I run into with my mother. What's a silk robe or a spa day compared to twenty years of doing everything make me comfortable and content? What's left to me except to look at him with love and hope he reads it all in my eyes?
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