Devlin would have told me I had pretty shoes. “Mom, you have pretty yoga pants.” “You have pretty socks.” “I like your nose.” I didn’t think I deserved a medal for shaving my legs AND plucking my eyebrows, but I didn’t think it was too much to ask to be positively acknowledged for going out of my way. And I sort of thought that by virtue of it being Valentine’s Day that one could naturally expect the ante to be upped a bit. It’s not like I was faulting him for not making me feel special on Groundhog Day, though it would be awesome to get flowers on Groundhog Day.
Then I remembered that I sent him an email a week prior with a picture of a beautiful red dress. I had said, simply, “size 6”.
THIS is why I hate Valentine’s Day. It has nothing to do with love. I know he loves me. As much as I try not to have expectations, I have expectations. He knows I’d punch him in the neck if he gave me flowers. Another expectation. I wondered if it would occur to him to run to the mall and make an impromptu dress purchase to placate my hurt feelings. As I wondered whether I would be more peeved to get the red dress or not, the UPS man rang my doorbell. The asshole ordered my dress a week ago. I couldn’t even be mad at him anymore. Then it dawned on me how to get what you need from the other person. Tell them exactly what you want and what size. They never read your mind, or your high heels, like you think they should.