I know exactly what Lee Pace is thinking right about now. Due to ice, snow and his strategic planning, we can skip Valentine’s Day.
I know this because he took me out to dinner on Tuesday this week since the predicted inclement weather would leave us stuck and bored in the house for a few days.
“If we go somewhere nice can we make this our Valentine’s dinner, too?” he asked with anticipation.
I know this guy. Always the multi-tasker and he hates crowds. A Friday Valentine’s dinner at a nice restaurant would be akin to the running of the bulls – a packed herd of agitated, crazed beasts forced to display their beastliness for all the world to measure – via their wife’s or girlfriend’s Facebook pages.
Did you know that King Henry VIII was the first to declare Valentine’s Day a holiday? The fates of his six consorts was two divorces, two natural deaths and two who lost their heads. Now there’s a real man who knows about romance. I bet when Anne Boleyn refused to be tricked into eating on a Tuesday to avoid the crowds at the Tudor Cafe, that’s when old Hank took care of her.
But Lee knows me too well. He knows I’ll wash my hair and apply mascara at the mere mention of going to a drive thru, as long as I don’t have to plan, grocery shop or cook. So when he started off with nice, Italian….well, he had me at Italian.
The restaurant was quiet and romantic. We sat by the front window on Tuesday, February 11 and watched people pass by on the quaint little street that leads through downtown Chapel Hill. The man was downright giddy.
For the pièce de résistance, he told me he loved me at the stoplight on the way home.
“The light’s green,” I replied. I know a snow job when I hear one.
When we returned to Hatch Road, Lee made a fire. We watched Breaking Bad because nothing spells romance like cooking meth. Lee sat there with a sense of satisfaction. I think he may have even been a little smug knowing all the other bulls out there were still packed in the herd jostling for position, dreading Friday while he was free to roam about his week.
He won’t even have to buy me flowers this year because who would be cruel enough to make some poor delivery kid brave these icy streets?
Chocolate? The best I can hope for is that the Exxon at the end of our road has a jumbo-sized Mr. Goodbar with my name on it. Maybe I’ll trudge down there myself and buy two. One for me, and one for me later.
“You just have to throw me under the bus about this, don’t you?” he lamented when I sent him my draft of this week’s post. “I’ll walk down to the Exxon and get you that candy bar if you keep quiet.”
“Okay,” I said, “can you buy yourself a lottery ticket while you’re at it, honey. That’s my gift to you. I’ll fire up Netflix and we’ll call it a holi-day. And when you spot the stop sign by the gas station, hear me whisper I love you.”
“You got it, baby,” he responded as he trudged through the snow – all in the name of love.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all.
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