Monday, February 14, 2011

the day we don't celebrate

We don't do Valentines Day usually. It's so predictable. The crowded restaurants, the prix fixe menus, the mediocre-tasting chocolate hearts, the cheesy stuffed animals holding satin hearts.

We were at Hallmark buying cards this weekend (because cards are always acceptable) and witnessed a poor boyfriend desperately trying to buy some charms and connectors for a bracelet. As we walked out, I reminded Shea how awesome of a wife I am for expecting nothing especially jewelry.

We're very big into celebrating the overwhelming love of our marriage. We have fun traditions. There are notes on the mirror. Fun costumes. Random trips. Anniversary celebrations. But we celebrate it everyday. Not just on a manufactured holiday in February.

Today I'm working at my desk and look up to see my extremely handsome husband walking down the hall with this.

This weekend I was whining a lot about how I feel fat. And I've developed love handles that were never there before. And my pants don't always button. And I'm breaking out. And my hair is oily. And I burp like a high school boy. I know it's good for me and for the little baby. But right now it's not glowing or cute, it's just icky fat feeling.

So the card attached to this pretty plant showed a husband waiting in his car for his wife whose hair was in curlers as she trying to clasp her bra around her fat. And read: "I love you just the way you are." It made me cry (because everything does these days). 

I'm lucky to have a husband who loves my developing love handles, soft belly, zits and all. And he'll love me just as much when my body tends to resemble a whale. And then in eight months when the belly is gone but my runner's body is a distance memory.

I love, love, LOVE him. But not because it's Feb. 14. Because it's Monday.

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