Before I left for class on Friday morning, Martyn asked what time I planned to return home. “By 12:00,” I casually replied as I walked out the door. Three hours and forty five minutes later, I arrived home to find flowers on the doorstep. Although my name was clearly plastered across the front of the box, stupid me assumed Mart didn’t want me to see them and intended to intercept the flowers and furnish them on Valentine’s Day (that’s what he did last year). I stepped over the box, went inside, and continued on with my day. Four hours later, I received a text from Marty:
“Are you home?
“Yes,” I texted back
“Did you get your flowers?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to see them. Was I?? I left them outside.”
“Oh no! Bring them in! They’ll be cold!”
“I’m an idiot.”
After sitting outside in the freezing cold for more than five hours, the flowers were brought in and unveiled: tulips and daffodils. Beautiful. But not without a chip on their stems as a result of my neglect. To my dismay, I propped them up in the vase, and as I stood back and smiled, they literally flopped over before my eyes.
What was I thinking??
Although they took some time (more than twenty four hours), and some coaxing, they eventually got over their extended stay in the cold and found their life again.
____________________
On Saturday morning Martyn woke up with the sun and headed out to play in a ten hour Frisbee golf tournament. I am still struggling to understand how this game can be great enough to keep someone outside in twenty five degree weather until the fading sun forces him home, but I am happy to report that I used my quiet time wisely by finally making use of the gift card Mart gave me last V-Day for the spa.
Why did it take me a year to get around to being pampered? I don’t know, I am just weird like that; I kept postponing its redemption, thinking that I had to enjoy my first real spa treatment on a day when I had absolutely no responsibilities to distract from feeling relaxed. As I sat there with the gift card in one hand and my phone in the other, about to call schedule an appointment, I was tempted still to put it off for a time when I “really needed it.” Yes, I am that person who doesn’t burn certain candles, and won’t let Marty dry his hands on the guest towels. “Live a little,” I said to myself as I dialed the number.
An hour later, I was fighting off the guilt I was feeling for skipping the gym; nonetheless, I took an extra long shower, shaved my legs, got dressed, and headed out to enjoy my “Afternoon Delight” spa package. I don’t know what compelled me to actually shave my legs on that particular day…maybe the warmth of the shower’s steam beckoned me to find an excuse to prolong my routine, but within the hour I was thanking myself for doing so. The spa package was labeled as a including a manicure, paraffin dip, and facial… but, oh, it was so much more! I was informed upon arrival that I would be enjoying a full two hour treatment that also included a neck and shoulder massage, along with a foot soak followed by a forty five minute foot and leg massage. As I was led into a dimly lit room and asked to remove my clothes and change into the neatly folded robe sitting on the table before me, the familiar inquiry made popular some years ago by Deana Carter reverberated through my mind. And, just as I reached down to rub against the grain to check my work, I nearly hummed the tune out loud: “Did I shave my legs for this?”
I know, I am classless and not cut out for the spa, but, hey, for two hours of shear indulgence I can pretend I am.
As for Sunday, it was as my high school gym teacher used say, “A great day to be alive.” Although I’ve never been a big Valentine’s Day kind of a girl, Marty went big last year and I wanted to ensure that he wouldn’t outdo me this time around. For weeks I have been collecting small gifts here and there while out shopping, and I was feeling quite proud that I would be able to put forth fair representation.
My confidence was further elevated last Wednesday when I returned home from work to find his car absent from the driveway. When I called to see where he was, he said he was shopping, and he had that 'don’t ask any more questions' tone in his voice.
“Is this for Valentine’s Day?” I asked, “because I don’t want this to be a repeat of last Valentine’s Day or Christmas when you totally outdid me. Can we please establish a price limit?”
“Twenty dollars,” he said hastily as he rushed off the phone.
I’m golden, I thought. I have that beat by at least one Ulysses S. Grant.
Alas, I missed the mark yet again. On Sunday after breakfast, he presented me with a large bag. He gave me a huge smile as he handed it to me and goofily said, “This is just a token of my love for you.” I opened it to reveal...an antibacterial mattress cover. Wait, huh? An antibacterial mattress cover?
“Um, what’s this for?” I asked.
“For the new bed that’s being delivered on Tuesday.”
[Arrow straight through heart]
Turns out the man can’t be trusted to keep his word. I know the real girly-girls out there would look at me with one eyebrow raised and ask, “So what did you do next? Cry? I mean, he got you a bed? That’s romantic??” But this is the girl who was just twenty four hours clear from losing her spa virginity. I am no girly-girl, and as I sat there with the mattress cover in hand, the tears came to my eyes as I reflected upon my rude awakening a few days prior when Marty sat down to file our taxes…
He filed his first, claiming the house, and we realized we would be getting nearly $3000 in returns. We had been talking about getting a mattress for weeks. Ours is a fifteen year old hand-me-down from his parents and has been causing unbearable nights of tossing and turning, and many achy, cranky mornings. So, it was decided: we would each use part of our portion of the return and go out in search of a bed the following week.
Marty filed my taxes next. I was upstairs folding laundry when I heard him say, “Uh… babe, I have some bad news. You owe the feds $1,800.” As I braced myself for the mental pain of signing a check to the government, which I knew would end up being spent on weapons, pre and post-natal care for pregnant teen moms, or in some system-reliant drug addict’s pocket until his next fix, I called back downstairs, with obvious melancholy in my voice: “I guess the mattress is going to have to wait.”
Sometimes the most romantic thing someone can do for you is prove you wrong.
The rest of the day was spent napping with the girls, and doing odd jobs around the house. Little did I know that I was to be outshined yet again when Marty capped off the evening with a meal fit for a queen: steak, pan-fried asparagus in olive oil and garlic, rosemary potatoes, salad, French bread, and Chilean Merlot.
There's nothing sexier than a cute guy in jeans and a T-shirt cooking in his own kitchen
Bon Appetit!
Yes, it was a great day to be alive.
I'm so glad you got to be pampered!! You can do that whenever you want!
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