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Peter and I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. We did way back
when, in the early dating years, when we were teenagers. But we soon decided it
was simply an opportunity to support Hallmark, and we decided to celebrate the
joys of our relationship throughout the year. We’re fortunate enough to have a
weekly date night, and he does a good job of remembering to bring home flowers
on random occasions. So I don’t mind the lack of hoopla on February 14th.
If I were single, however, the hearts and flowers and
jewelry and dinners out would probably get to me. I’d want to sulk or complain
or curl up in a ball and bemoan my lot in life. And I imagine I would feel
jealous, at least for the day, of people like me, people with a steady and
faithful husband who don’t even need to think about Valentine’s Day because of
the relationship that sustains us the whole year long.
The funny thing is that sometimes I feel pangs of envy for
my single friends. Don’t get me wrong–I adore my husband. I’m incredibly
grateful for our children. And I know that living alone as an adult is tough.
And yet I want to believe that singleness, at least for a time, is also a gift.