Valentine’s Day – Cindy Hval

My husband and I have reached the time of life when downsizing seems prudent. No, I’m not talking about selling our home or offloading possessions, I’m talking about reducing our waistlines.

Keeping track of things like blood sugar looms ever more important as we age. That’s why, when Valentine’s Day approached, I suggested we skip the usual exchange of chocolates.

Derek agreed, but I could tell by the twinkle in his eye he had something else in mind. More on that in a minute.

We’re in our second year as empty-nesters, and we continue to adapt.

During the years our sons lived at home, Valentine’s morning was special. They awoke to a lace-topped table filled with heart-shaped dishes of cinnamon, cherry and conversation heart candies. A card and a box of chocolates waited at each place and, when they opened the refrigerator, they discovered that Cupid had magically turned the milk pink.

Even after the older boys moved out, they stopped by to get their cards, candy and hugs from Mom. With the departure of our youngest last year, for the first time in 25-plus years, Cupid skipped our frig, and the heart-shaped dishes and lace tablecloth remained tucked away.

We were back to where it began – just the two of us.

That’s not to say our first Valentine’s Day as man and wife was especially romantic, but it was certainly memorable.

As newlyweds, we attended college full-time and worked three jobs between the two of us to keep our Love Boat afloat. I knew we couldn’t afford to go out on Valentine’s Day, but I did my best to make it special.

When Derek arrived home late on that fateful Feb. 14, I’d roasted two tiny Cornish game hens with potatoes and herbs and set our wobbly card table with a vinyl cloth and our wedding gift stoneware. I’d placed a small box of chocolates and a red enveloped card at his place.

“This looks nice,” he said, kissing me.

Then he noticed the card and heart-shaped box.

“Oh! It’s Valentine’s Day?”

At that, I burst into tears, ran the six steps to our bedroom and collapsed on our waterbed, heartbroken.

“Don’t cry! I’m sorry I forgot! I’ll be right back!” Derek yelled, slamming the apartment door behind him.

I was still face-down on our now-soggy bed when he returned.

He switched on the bedroom light and announced, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Babe!”

Sniffling, I sat up.

That’s when he thrust a helium-filled balloon into my hand. I tugged the attached ribbon, looking for the card.

There was no card.

No candy.

No flowers.

Just a Pepto Bismol-pink balloon.

Our waterbed got even waterier. My bewildered and exhausted husband went back out and returned with a card. We ate cold game hen and potatoes and made up the way newlyweds do.

Our sons know this story well, as I’ve shared it as a cautionary tale (future daughter-in-laws will thank me.)

Yet this year, when I suggested skipping the exchange of chocolates on Valentine’s Day, Derek nodded.

“But balloons are OK, right?” he asked.